Western Hospitality
On one particularly hot day in Urumqi, I decided to head to a small, hole-in-the-wall dumpling house near the center of the city for lunch. I ordered noodle soup and baozi stuffed with pork and veggies. As my food came, an old, half-drunk Han Chinese man sitting at the table next to me struck up a conversation. As he peered out from over his soup, he began recounting his struggles during the Great Leap Forward.
“When I was young, we didn’t have any meat to eat. People would literally take the bone out of my bowl as I tried to eat it. It was a struggle to survive.” As he was talking, he noticed that two young Chinese nearby were snickering at him. They seemed more interested in the most recent fashion craze than learning from their elders—both had crazy, only-in-China dos, as well as jeans with all sorts of bling on them. “You see these kids,” he said, “they don’t give a damn about the past. They don’t understand what Mao did, nor do they really care. They are only focused on the making money.”
The Landlord and I
In daily life in China I am constantly reminded that, no matter how long I’ve lived here or how diligently I study the language, I am in China’s house, and the house always wins. I’m also reminded of this in my interactions with the locals. By far the most frustrating and masochistic relationship I endure in China is that with my landlord.
Making Ends Meet
Mr. Ye’s (alias) story is incredible because it is so ordinary. He is a spry, rail-thin man of 59 with large, elfish ears and tattoos covering both his arms and chest. And, as is the case with most Burmese, he has had to work all of the angels in order to survive.
Life Without Duties
As soon as I crossed the border from Ruili, China into Muse, Myanmar, I was greeted by the General in charge of the border, a film crew, and a group of photographers. The General, who was distinguished from the other Army officials by his slightly lighter green uniform, was a short, squat man whose few remaining teeth had been stained red by betel nut, the chewing of which seems to be a national pastime in Myanmar.
As the cameras rolled and crowds gathered to stare at the fair-haired American with the local governmental leader, the villagers quietly whispered and joked among themselves. I found out later they were discussing how much time the encounter would take up on the local news programs that evening and if my picture would be in the paper the following day. After stumbling through his welcome speech, confirming that I was an American citizen, and lightly chastising me for not bringing any of my friends along, I was allowed to proceed into a car and travel for several hours past jeeps with large machine guns on my way to Lashio, the first city after the border in which foreigners are allowed. This was my introduction to Myanmar, a land of stunning beauty, crushing poverty, friendly people, and a strong, authoritarian military government.
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