A common ritual for expatriates in China is the visa run. Because of the limited number of days a tourist can spend in one “visit” to China (in our case it was sixty days), those staying in China for longer durations must make the trek out of the country and back in to get a new stamp on their passport and reset the timer. Common destinations include Mongolia, South Korea, and Hong Kong, whose special status counts as leaving China. Often it’s used as an excuse to take a vacation every couple of months, and that’s what Michael and I did for our first run to Hong Kong—we made a weekend of it. This time, however, was supposed to be a formality: take the train from Beijing to Hong Kong (a twenty-four hour trip), then immediately get on the return train and head back. Clean, simple, and efficient.

However, there was one snafu to trip us up. We didn’t book our return train ahead of time, and after arriving at the station, we found that the return trip was already completely sold out. The next train from Hong Kong wouldn’t leave for another two days, meaning we would be stuck on the other side of the border until then. This was unacceptable to Michael, and because of obligations back in Beijing, he opted to take a plane ride back the next afternoon, at the cost of around 2000 Hong Kong Dollars (about $256 USD). I, on the other hand, had no such deadline, and so there was another option. Tomorrow, a train would leave from neighboring Shenzhen. I could cross the border on foot, then take the Shenzhen train to Beijing. This would only cost me around 400 HKD ($50 USD). “That sounds pretty good,” I say to the attendant.

“It’s a hard seat,” she replies.

“Are there any sleepers?”

“No, no sleeper, only seat.”

On the train to Hong Kong, Michael and I had tickets for a “hard sleeper” coach, meaning that we had bunk beds to sleep in for the duration of the trip. The first time we took a train ride in China, I was filled with trepidation, having read some horror stories online: cramped cattle cars… no running water… angry baijiu-swilling migrant workers who would slit their mamas’ throats for a nickel. And it’s true that the “soft sleeper” cars on the train seemed like wonderlands of luxury (Doors that can close! Western-style toilets!) but the hard sleeper cars were pleasant enough. The train rides were soothing in their own way.

However, on this trip, my only option was to get a “hard seat” ticket, meaning I would have only one space on a bench of seats in a crowded train car to call my own for an entire twenty-four hours. Or I could get a plane ticket like Michael, but I’m not made out of RMB. “Get the seat, Oscar. Come on, get the seat!”

And so frugality won out. I pushed the button.

—

Even with our new plans, we still had an evening to kill in Hong Kong. Rather than staying in a hostel for the night, Michael had another great idea: just power through and stay up until the next day. As I was on a frugality kick, I foolishly agreed. This led to a Lost Weekend-style journey throughout the city, which included eating at the Tsui Wah cafe, getting kicked out of three Starbucks over a period of three hours, and spending much of the night drinking in front of 7-11. (This is not as cheap and degenerate as it may sound. If Hong Kong is the West’s idea of China transformed into a theme park, 7-11s are the concession stands. They’re everywhere, and every night you can see I-bankers in expensive suits and dolled-up club girls standing in front of 7-11s pounding Bacardi Breezers before heading to their next venue. Alright, that does sound cheap and degenerate.)

Around 4 AM, Michael and I head to an all-night McDonald’s where he immediately passes out in a chair. It seems we’re not the only ones doing that, as every other seat is filled with men sitting around, sleeping upright, or staring off into space. The girl at the register comes over to the table we’re at and cleans up the trays and trash left by its previous occupant. She gives a look to me and Michael. “You’re here in Hong Kong to work?” she asks me.

“No, we’re just visiting.”

She looks at us askance, as she sees all the other men in here who are probably “just visiting.”

“Are you from Malaysia?”

I shake my head. “No.”

“Indonesia?”

“No, we’re from America, but we came here from Beijing.”

She takes another look at Michael. I can see the wheels turning in her head. She finally asks, “Are you from Vietnam?”

—

The next day, Michael heads off to the airport, where I have no doubt his trip back to Beijing included buckets of Cristal and back massages from cute flight attendants. I, on the other hand, cross the border to Shenzhen and board my train. After the group of over a thousand people are herded through the station, I take my seat in a compartment that says it’s designed for 150 people; but with the number of people standing around and crammed into the seats, there’s probably a lot more than that. Soon thereafter, another passenger comes in and tries to stuff a colorfully-designed bag three sizes too large into the overhead compartment right above my head. Its gargantuan size means that if it fell off and hit me in the head, the sheer force of the blow would probably snap my neck. Luckily, a conductor comes by and waves him to take it down. Meanwhile, I begin to zone out. It’s been two full days since I’ve taken a shower, and the accumulated fatigue is beginning to take its toll on me. But at least I have a seat, and I’m on my way back to Beijing. The worst seems over.

Hour 1: Having found my seat, more people continue to pour into the train. A girl stands beside my seat to the right, just standing in the middle of the aisle. I wonder if there’s a problem with our seats, but she seems content to just stand there. I begin reading the book I brought on the train, Peter Hessler’s Country Driving. I consider the poetic nature of reading about traveling across the Chinese countryside while actually traveling across the Chinese countryside. However, it’s interrupted by the girl to my left, who starts playing music from her cell phone like it’s a boombox. It’s a Jay Chou song that I don’t recognize. This continues, and when there’s a pause, a boy on the other side of the aisle plays another Jay Chou song from his phone. I don’t know how common this is, or if this is some sort of Chinese flirtation.  It’s cute for about six or seven minutes.

Hour 2: Train attendants walk up and down the aisles with carts of snacks and fruit to sell. This is something I have seen before. However, one of these hawkers carries a tray of beads with him, and plops it down on a table. He gets everyone’s attention, and starts launching into what must be a sales pitch, talking at lightning speed. Basically this man is the human equivalent of those SkyMall catalogs on planes. This would be the first of many attempts to hawk his wares to his captive audience. If this were a market, I would just walk away; but here, to walk away would mean walking through the nearest window of a speeding train. Later on, I will seriously consider this.

Hour 4: The police on the train check everyone’s identification cards. I’m the only one who pulls out a foreign passport. Phone Girl points and talks to Standing Girl in Chinese. “That’s why he doesn’t understand! He’s a foreigner!” These are the only words of Chinese I comprehend during the entire ride. Phone Girl and Standing Girl talk to each other, and then Phone Girl stands up and gives Standing Girl her seat. My theory is that these two are friends who bought one ticket together and are switching off for the duration of the ride. I consider this ludicrous, but then some passengers will end up standing for the entire duration of the trip. This breaks my brain.

Hour 6: I get over my fear of potentially losing my seat to the pack of standing passengers and attempt to use the restroom, navigating around the crowd and the woman passed out near the sinks crouching in a puddle of water. I am sure you have an intellectual conception of what one train toilet used by over three hundred people over a period of twenty-four hours must be like. It is times like these, like the Hundred Flowers Campaign, where intellectual notions are quickly outstripped by reality. Also like the Hundred Flowers Campaign, I feel like purging. I resolve to not eat or drink  for the rest of the ride, in the hope of avoiding a return trip.

Hour 7: Phone Girl and Phone Boy keep switching off Jay Chou songs. When Phone Girl plays, she also sings along to the sound of her phone. It would be nice, I suppose, if I weren’t stuck between these people for what seems like the entirety of Jay Chou’s career. I begin to hate Jay Chou, and if you must know, I loved Initial D.

Hour 10: Almost halfway there. In Country Driving, Peter Hessler describes a factory manager writing an ad for workers. “Must eat bitterness,” the ad says. This is a literal translation of the word 吃苦 (chiku), which means to endure hardship. I consider for a moment that while I feel broken down and beaten by the cramped quarters, the poor hygiene, the constant noise and distraction, and the marathon of physical and mental endurance that comes with experiencing all of these, everyone around me seems content to bear these conditions. In reading about Chinese cultural mores, Western writers often mention how it seems ingrained in the Chinese mindset that pain and suffering are inevitable, and so one must just endure it—eat bitterness. I consider, as my editor George Ding put it, the consequences of uneven economic development without social development. It’s a moment of self-reflection. The moment soon passes.

Hour 12: The train stops. It’s too dark to read any signs about where we are. More passengers come onto the train, and considering there weren’t enough seats already, it seems that cartoon physics will soon need to be applied to fit these people on the train. Seeing a fresh batch of customers, Mr. SkyMall launches into another sales pitch, carrying a tray of plastic things that look like dinosaur sponges. I have no idea what they could be, and without understanding what he’s saying, I will never know.

Hour 13: They don’t shut off the lights. They don’t even dim the lights. The Pentagon’s internal review of enhanced interrogation techniques revealed several methods which fall under that umbrella. 1: Yelling. (I dread the return of Mr. SkyMall.) 2: Loud music and light control. (The interrogators at Camp X-Ray preferred Slayer; here, it’s Jay Chou.) 3: Environmental manipulation. (Because the lights are never turned off, looking outside the window is literally looking into a black void of darkness. I have no idea where we are. I could be in deep space.) 4: Sleep deprivation. (Well, duh.) 5: Stress positions. (Does being stuck in a hard seat for twenty-four hours count? I think it should.) 6: 2o-hour-long interrogations. (Ditto.) 7: Controlled fear. (Well, six out of seven ain’t bad.)

Hour 14: It is literally the middle of the night. Mr. SkyMall returns. This time he’s selling anti-radiation bracelets. The box features a smiling white couple on the cover. I begin to wonder whether they’re laughing at me.

Hour 15: Dehydration and fatigue, compounded with the clouds of cigarette smoke wafting in from the other side of the car, have induced a hallucinatory experience. Everyone around me seems to stop speaking Chinese. Instead, they’re speaking English, except I no longer understand English. Does that make any sense? Every time I start drifting off, I hear a snippet of speech above the cacophony that sounds like I should understand it, except I don’t, and its only purpose is to keep me awake and confused. This persists for the rest of the trip.

Hour 16: I begin to consider welcoming death. I attempt to maintain my sanity by constructing this article line-by-line in my head. (The original “train draft” version of this piece concluded with an elaborate revenge fantasy where I re-enacted the ending of Inglourious Basterds on Michael.)

Hour 19: For a couple of hours, I manage to get some sleep, as my body feels like it’s just shutting down due to sheer exhaustion. I am awakened by Mr. SkyMall walking the aisles, selling more crap. This time, it’s toothbrushes, which are the only products he has which seem to make logical sense to sell on a train. The train makes another stop, and Phone Girl and Formerly-Standing Girl leave. They are replaced by an older woman, a younger man, and a little girl. When the woman holds the girl on her lap and looks out the window, the light makes her look exactly like that one famous Dorothea Lange photo of an Okie family.

Hour 21: During the ride, I’ve been keeping George and Michael informed of my progress on the train. “Don’t worry, it will be over soon,” Michael texts as if I’m losing a battle with terminal cancer. George adds, “You should write an article about your experience.” Across from me, a baby throws up all over itself. Spittle and vomit drip down to the floor and onto the mother’s shoes as she tries to clean the child up. Beside me, the Okie family are eating sunflower seeds and tossing the shells onto the floor. To be fair, they’re aiming for a tray of trash, but the floor keeps getting in the way.

Hour 23: At the rear of the compartment, a small audience forms as two of the passengers, an old man and old woman, put on a show. The woman sings in what I think is a traditional Chinese style. Kids run down the aisle towards the wailing. It’s difficult to see through the crowd, but I believe there are puppets involved. Even Mr. SkyMall stops hawking his wares for a minute to let the show go on. It’s a genuinely interesting moment.

Hour 24: Sweet, sweet release. The train pulls into the Beijing West train station, and as the doors open, people flood out of the car and merge with the masses outside. It will still take me an additional hour to get back to my apartment, but at least I’m back on familiar ground. I know I should have no right to feel as if I’ve really eaten bitterness, considering how everyone else in that compartment handled the experience, but stepping off the train I really do feel like a war veteran coming home. “Poor kid, you had to ride the subway for an hour? Let me tell you a story about the night train to Beijing…”

I wonder if the censorship bureau understands this parable because one thing everyone in China should know by now is that if you ever come across a website that terminates your Internet connection, start digging.

Recently, many writers have been weighing in on the 60th anniversary of the founding of the People’s Republic of China, and the 20th anniversary of an event that’s received much less publicity. NPR has three interviews with writers from three very different generations: Jiang Rong, 63 (“I criticized China’s politics, but not directly. What I criticized was deeper, and that was acceptable to the authorities.”), Yu Hua, 49 (“[I use] absurdity to describe absurd times.”), and Guo Jingming, 25 (“I don’t know much about my parents’ generation, and I don’t want to know.”), who, for better or worse, are representative of their time and the events that have shaped them.

Currently, the fastest way to get your Amazon.com connection terminated is to click on the link to Zhao Ziyang’s memoir.  In all fairness, China has been surprisingly open about the things you can read on Amazon. But this apparently strikes a nerve, even though the government has formally and publicly dismissed the memoir:

“Our Party and government long ago reached a clear conclusion about the events in China of the late 1980s, the political disturbances then and all related issues,” Foreign Ministry spokesman Ma Zhaoxu, speaking hesitantly, told a regular news briefing.

Ironically, by not offering a reasonable account of the events in June, the government is basically making Zhao’s take on events the only primary source from within the Party.  The memoir, however, is banned in every place in China except Hong Kong.  Look for it on counterfeit book carts starting next week.

In the past week, more and more sites, including Twitter, Flickr, Hotmail, have been blocked.  The Guardian has some guesses about why. The Washington Post has also been blocked, perhaps because of an op-ed by Dan Southerland, Beijing bureau chief for the Post in ’89, that gives his account of that night. The New York Times also has a passionate op-ed by Ha Jin about why he chose to live in America and write in English.  Excerpt:

To some Chinese, my choice of English is a kind of betrayal. But loyalty is a two-way street. I feel I have been betrayed by China, which has suppressed its people and made artistic freedom unavailable.

Both are worth a read but the crown goes to Ma Jian, author of Beijing Coma, who wrote one for The Guardian.  It is a condemnation, told though experience and stories from eyewitnesses. (Yes, I know some of these links will be blocked—use a proxy.)  Excerpt:

“It happened right here,” he told me, “just by these white railings. A tank charged down Changan Avenue, and sprayed tear gas into the air. There was a big crowd of us. We were coughing and choking. We rushed on to the pavement, and I was squashed back against these railings. A girl dropped to her knees. I was grasping the railings with one hand to stop myself falling and with the other I offered her a handkerchief and told her to use it as a mask. Just as I was leaning over to hand it to her, another tank roared up and careered into us. Thirteen people were crushed to death but I only lost my arm. The tank commander knew exactly what he was doing.”

In these few days leading up to the 20th anniversary we are bound to hear more voices speak out in the Western media about what transpired that night.  We’ll hear stories, calls for openness, attacks on the government’s response, appeals to the disinterested youth of today.  But the question that worries the Chinese government is, will any of it be in Mandarin?

June 3, 2009 – EDIT: More op-eds from the New York Times by Yu Hua, Yiyun Li, and Lijia Zhang.

—

It all started with some small talk. I got into a cab at Xidan after the buses had stopped running, and the cabbie, who was the talkative type, decided to make conversation.

“Did you participate in the moment of silence?”

It was a hard question to answer, though it shouldn’t have been. The answer was “No.” Simple as that. But I equivocated. I told him that I was in a mall during the moment of silence and that I saw some people observing it (which was all true), what about you? He said that he was on the street, standing beside his car, honking his horn. I asked him why and he said dismissively that the state had ordered him to.

If he had said that he had lost someone in the quake, I would have let it go. And maybe if he had said that he thought it was the right thing to do, I wouldn’t have pressed him. But from his insouciant answer I thought that maybe he thought the whole forced outpouring of guilt as absurd and inconvenient as I did.

So I said: “I think it’s bullshit that they are closing entertainment venues because of the earthquake.”

“Why?”

“Because KTV and roller coasters have nothing to do with the earthquake. And the government doesn’t have the right to tell me how to mourn. If I want to pray for the victims, then go out and have fun with my friends, I should be able to.”

He glanced at me like, “Are you serious?”

“You can’t have fun while others are suffering. There are mothers, childen—buried. These people don’t have homes anymore!”

“I understand that, but every single day someone is suffering somewhere…”

We were driving north from Xizhimen. On our right flashed the Beijing Film Academy. There were no cars in front or around us so the cabbie hazarded a look in my direction and said, “你是中国人么?” (“Are you Chinese?”) Usually this question is meant as a joke, but that night it seemed less than facetious and more than idle curiosity. It seemed like a veiled threat.

This time I replied honestly: “No. I grew up in America.”

“No wonder.”

I didn’t ask him what he meant by that. In my six months here in China I had never felt so American as I did in that moment. No, I don’t mean “American”—I mean “not Chinese.” I had never felt so un-Chinese as when he asked me that question. But he was right, try as I might, I couldn’t understand the situation from a Chinese perspective. I was connected to China ethnically and could understand it intellectually, but where was my emotional connection, and did I ever have one in the first place? These are all questions I pondered afterward. At the time, I pressed on.

“You’re right. I’m an American. You know about 9/11. We had one national day of mourning but that was it. But after, you could still go to the amusement park if you wanted to.”

“That was terrible, but at least those people had homes they could go back to. There are millions homeless right now.”

“What about the floods in Myanmar? There are many more victims but no moments of silence.”

“But they aren’t Chinese.”

“Chinese people die every year of floods too.”

“But that is a few hundred people at most.”

“So it’s about the numbers?”

The cabbie drove faster and faster, his hands shook on the steering wheel, which caused the car to sway.

“These people are starving! Trucks can’t get through, they can’t find these people, and they are dying!”

“But what about the famines during the cultural revolution? Millions died then.”

He was exasperated. He laughed in the way you laugh when dealing with irrationality.

“Maybe it’s different in America—I don’t know, but in China this is the first time since ’49 that the government has acknowledged tragedy publicly. It shows that they are caring more about regular people. And I’m not talking about me—I’m fine. I’m talking about the peasants.”

“I agree that the government is making changes, and that it is great they are acknowledging the tragedy, but I wonder if they don’t get something out of it.”

“Of course they are. No one talks about Tibet anymore, not even the Western media. The government is instituting these things like the moment of silence and the ban on public recreation. If they didn’t the people would begin to wonder—do they not care about us? But most of this stuff, like the donations, are voluntary. Usually companies will force their employees to donate a certain amount of money but not this time. You give what you want. I’d say—and I’m just guessing, I don’t have the numbers or anything—that 30% are doing it because they have to but 70% are doing it because they want to.”

The conversation continued like a Platonic dialogue. The cabbie was a smart man, I could tell. He might have been thinking up his points on the fly (while trying to keep the car from scraping the median), but he had his information. When we got to my apartment I thanked him for giving me something to think about.

—

It is meaningless to compare human misery. Numerically, culturally, or socially.

I cited 9/11 when I argued with the cabbie but the nature of 9/11 was different. 9/11 was a conscious attack perpetrated by an outsider; the horror of 9/11, other than the casualties, was mostly psychological—it was an attack on American soil that reminded those of us not alive for Pearl Harbor that America is not invulnerable. This is a feeling I don’t expect most of the world to understand, because America is one of the few nations that have not had to fight a war on its own soil (I am talking about America in its fifty-state form and thus discounting the Revolutionary and Civil War).

Likewise, it is hard for me to understand what this government intervention means to Chinese people. How would I have felt if the government halted recreational activities after 9/11? Would I have taken it as concern or a violation of civil liberties?

Perhaps Americans are inoculated against disasters. We give our hurricanes names. We endearingly refer to the places most frequently destroyed by twisters Tornado Alley. We distance ourselves, watching the devastation from a helicopter’s point of view. Or we do what we do best—turn it into a media event, oversaturate the news so that people get tired of hearing about it. Katrina was apparently a big deal but I couldn’t believe Kanye said that shit about Bush.

Or maybe disasters just don’t effect us as much. The worst earthquake in American history was the 1906 San Francisco earthquake which killed about 3,000 people. Ironically, the top 9 events that have claimed the most American lives are all wars, with Iraq inching in on the 10th spot, which is currently held by the deadliest natural disaster in America: the Galveston Hurricane of 1900 which claimed at least 6,000 lives.

But if Americans can be inoculated against disaster through media coverage, so can the Chinese. The Sichuan Earthquake was a great step forward in government transparency (even though, as my colleague Yulin Zhuang argues, the government is using the earthquake as a political tool), and the fact that it claimed so many lives will only help to cement it in the Chinese consciousness. If this openness continues, maybe when the next disasters strike (knock on wood), the outpouring of support will be less and less and the donations fewer and fewer because people will unwittingly make comparisons to this earthquake, and after a while they will become numb.

When I got home I thought about the original question the cab driver had asked me, the one I had lied to. I thought back to 2:28 in the afternoon. I was at the Starbucks in The Place, chatting with a friend when the PA came on reminding everyone about the moment of silence. Some employees, in identical red-and-gold cheongsams, ran past to join the small crowd that had gathered outside to gaze at the large screen broadcasting a montage of the tragedy. My friend and I talked in a hushed whisper. Beside us a young Chinese man was yelling into his cell phone, and behind me three Chinese wives bowed their heads and clasped their hands in prayer. And outside, perhaps incredulous to find the streets empty, a car sped past, its engine roaring, going as fast as it could.

“What kind of job?”

“I dunno. Any job.”

“Do you think it will involve English?”

“Maybe, I dunno.”

I began to interrogate my other students. One after another, class after class, I got the same answers. Only a score of students had any kind of goal–mostly “study abroad someday”–and none of them had a concrete plan. As far as I’m aware, out of the nearly 350 students that I’ve taught, the ones who will actually study abroad can be counted on the fingers of one hand.

I thought, perhaps it was what the students were studying. After all, they were entirely Business English majors, which is useful but doesn’t suggest a specific trade to go into. I volunteered to run an extracurricular English Corner at school, met other students with different majors and asked them the same questions. I received the same answers.

I’ll be the first to admit that my generation is infamous for being directionless. Generation X was all about pushing boundaries and challenging assumptions; Generation Y is perhaps best transliterated as Generation Why Bother? Apathy is the hallmark trait of my generation. Most young people in the States, however, have a general sense of direction. They have a pie-in-the-sky dream that they’d like to accomplish someday, or an area of interest (anthropology, Japanese culture, model trains). While it’s true that few of them will actually get a job relating to those interests, they have a vague idea of what they want to do that guides them in a certain direction.

Youth in China seem to lack that same sense of direction. If they do have a dream, it’s mostly of material possessions–they want to have a car, a house, and the latest cell phone that does everything except wash your dishes. If they do have goals, they’re usually the ones their parents have laid out for them. They go work at jobs that their parents find for them by leveraging contacts, they major in subjects that their parents tell them to major in. I never took a formal survey, but I’d estimate somewhere between 30-60% of my Business English majors were studying English primarily because their parents had told them to.

That said, there are those who have specific goals–the self-driven individuals who say, “this is what I want” to their parents and to their friends and who lead lives of their own choosing. Perhaps my sampling space is simply skewed–after all, those kinds of motivated people might be ones that already have mastered English. Perhaps my impression of normalcy is skewed, as I run with a fairly off-beat crowd in the States. Still, I’ve met all sorts of people in my time here, and the ones who walk to the beat of a different drum are rare.

There is no simple explanation for why there seems to be a nationwide epidemic of apathy. Some possible explanations include:

• The extremely competitive job market, which makes it difficult to find any job. Many candidates possess equal qualifications on paper, which makes personal connections much more important.
• Lack of realistic job training in schools–many who graduate with a degree are still not qualified to work in that field.
• Lack of extracurricular activities in education leaves many with academic credentials but no real job experience upon graduation.
• Cutthroat competition and lack of intellectual property rights enforcement stifles innovation/imagination. Why bother developing a new idea when someone is just going to copy it?
• Education and social indoctrination focuses a great deal on not losing face–the quest to not look foolish makes many people leery of trying to begin with.
• Lingering Confucian respect for elders, which includes doing everything they tell you without question, inculcates a habit of passive obedience.
• There’s always someone better: the crowning achievement of Chinese youth is the National University Entrance Examination, which limits definitions of achievement to a few narrow fields. Only a few students can do very well, most end up crushingly aware of their own mediocrity.
• Family sacrifice–parents give up a great deal to send their children to the best schools they can, which puts enormous pressure on students. They are unwilling to go against the wishes of those who have given up so much for their own benefit.
• Learned helplessness–from a young age children are not in control of anything important with regard to their own lives.
• There is no social stigma attached to still living with your parents in your late twenties, which makes young people less inclined to try and assert their own independence.
• Lack of career counseling leaves many students unaware of potential career paths. The bottleneck of the National Entrance Examination means that students don’t have a chance to start customizing their skill sets until after they enter college.

I suppose the major difference between the United States and China lies in the reaction to authority. Gen Y asks, “Why should I listen to you? Why should I want the same things you think I should want?” But Generation China asks very little. After all, mother and father know best.

This, however, was a happy occasion, and not the open conflict it sounds like. Spring Festival, which marks the Lunar New Year, has arrived once again in Beijing, and the Chinese are celebrating it the way they always have—with massive amounts of fireworks.

According to legend, gunpowder was accidentally discovered 2,000 years ago by a cook in the kitchen. Sufur, saltpeter, and charcoal were not uncommon in field kitchens of that time. The prevailing theory is that gunpowder was discovered in the 9th century by Taoist alchemists searching for the elixir of immortality. Regardless, by the 12th century it was being used to make firecrackers for religious purposes: the loud bangs are said to scare off evil spirits. Evil spirits are also known for being both small and not able to jump, which is why there is a large lintel at the entrance of traditional Chinese houses.

Starting in 1994, fireworks were forbidden within the city limits of Beijing, for reasons of safety. If one wanted to set off fireworks, one had to go outside the 5th ring road. Three years ago, however, the government lifted the ban and allowed fireworks (of restricted explosive power) to be set off within the city. I was not here for that Spring Festival, but I’m told the night sky was as bright as day and the festivities continued well into the small hours of the night. I was present for Spring Festival last year, however, and I was left speechless at the display.

My house lies near the center of Beijing, with views that face both north and south. In every direction, there was a never-ending stream of fireworks exploding all across the horizon, lasting nearly all night. Every family buys a few fireworks and goes outside at various times to set them off. My uncle spent almost three hours riding his bike home on New Year’s Eve, a trip that normally takes 30 minutes. Every street was packed with people setting fireworks off in the middle of the road, taking turns and without a single pause. Huge crowds gathered in parks and other open spaces. To give a sense of how many fireworks are set off, there was approximately 54 tons of debris picked up over a ten hour period the morning after. Used cardboard boxes and tubes are piled high outside each apartment complex and the pavement is scorched black in places.

There is a downside to the sparkling lights and riotous glee. Each year, hundreds are injured during Spring Festival. In 2007, there was 1 death and 715 fireworks-related injuries in Beijing. There has already been one death this year—a man named Zhang who, after drinking heavily, decided it was a good idea to set off large fireworks. Things are getting better, however. So far, officials report that injuries are down 42% compared to last year. Almost all the accidents are due to substandard illegal fireworks produced by non-licensed factories or improper use. The Chinese government does its best to close down these factories—checkpoints were set up on all major highways leading into Beijing to inspect for illegal fireworks. Over 3,000 boxes of substandard fireworks were destroyed in Beijing alone this year. Regulation of the fireworks industry has gotten more reliable over the past decade, meaning that much fewer substandard fireworks are being produced and distributed. Production is left primarily in the hands of licensed professionals. The thousands of street stalls that are set up in the city are monitored to ensure quality.

Regulation, however, comes at a cost. Due to taxes levied on officially licensed fireworks, many residents turn to underground sources. Illegal fireworks are cheaper, and often pack a much bigger bang than officially permitted fireworks. “Ten years ago, 1,000 RMB could buy a lot of fireworks. These days, 1,000 RMB buys you hardly any,” says Belinda, 23, a native Beijing resident. “If you go to the outskirts of the city, the fireworks there are ten times cheaper and also much bigger.” Despite the dangers, Beijing residents are still enthusiastic about the holiday, and adamant about celebrating it. Fireworks are an integral part of Chinese New Year, part of the Chinese cultural identity—imagine Christmas without Christmas trees or Santa Claus.

Spring Festival is a roving week-long holiday that changes each year, as it follows the lunar calendar. It marks the turn of the Chinese calendar, ushering in the new spring. It is a time for family, functioning in a similar way to Christmas and Thanksgiving in the U.S. Far-flung relations return home for a banquet—this year, the Chinese Ministry of Railways estimated that 178 million people would use the trains during the holiday. For many of China’s millions of migrant workers, this holiday marks the major payday of the year and is their one chance to return home. Many will stand on overcrowded trains for up to 30 hours or more to get back to their families. The vast majority of Chinese families spend Lunar New Year’s Eve at home, watching the annual New Year’s Gala on CCTV; a variety show that mixes music, comedic skits, intricately choreographed dance routines, acrobatics, and more.

Arguably the best part of Spring Festival for children, however, is the red envelopes of cash—called yasui money. Yasui money is traditionally given to children by their older relations. The red envelopes are meant to stave off bad luck and ill health. Unlike the West, gift-giving events in China such as weddings or New Year’s traditionally occasion the presentation of cash in small red envelopes rather than presents.

Yasui money has an old story behind it. The characters are, when literally translated, the ones for “to press” and “age.” The story goes that in ancient times there was an ogre with a black body and white hands named Sui (a different character from “age”). This monster would only appear once a year, on the night of the Lunar New Year. It would go around to children’s beds and stroke their heads three times. The child would awake crying and burning with fever. Several days later, when the fever abated, the child would have turned into a simpleton. Villagers would gather together on that night with many lanterns and candles in order to protect themselves and their loved ones from the monster. In one village, there was a family surnamed Guan. Afraid of the monster, the parents tried to keep their child awake all night. The child began playing with a piece of red paper, folding and unfolding it in various ways with some copper coins. In the end, he wrapped up eight copper coins in the paper and left it by his pillow when he finally fell asleep. The parents Guan, however, did not relax their vigil. All of a sudden, the door banged open and a gust of cold wind blew in, extinguishing all the lights in the house. The monster Sui came with his white hands and reached out to touch the child’s head. All of a sudden, he saw a gleam of light from beside the child’s pillow. Startled by the sudden shine, he fled from the house. The light was, of course, from the copper coins. The Guan family told their friends and neighbors about this method of scaring off Sui and thus the tradition of wrapping money up in red paper was born, as well as the term yasui; more freely translated as “to suppress the demon Sui.” Over the years, the character for the monster Sui was no longer used, and the modern character for age was substituted.

The first day of Spring Festival is the most riotous, but the fireworks last all week. Chinese typically get one to two weeks off work for Spring Festival, and they make the most of it. The volume of fireworks this year seems to be smaller than last—the novelty of being allowed to set off fireworks is dying down a bit. Still, the celebration of Chinese Lunar New Year far surpasses any Fourth of July display I’ve ever seen. Chinese people still retain a childlike glee and fascination with fireworks which promises that the traditional Lunar New Year celebrations will always be both loud and bright.