I have been here a semester now, and with my departure impending, I feel the time is right to make an official declaration on this country. Herein are four things I like about China, chosen from among others for no particular reason.
1. Baijiu: It is not so much that I like to drink China's dreadfully potent alcohol, but I like that it exists. Baijiu looks harmless enough: clear, like water, and it comes in fancy little ceramic bottles or green glass flasks that have a fun Communist-era feel.
Its smell, however, is something like gasoline, and if you dare to taste it, you will usually regret the decision as soon as a drop has passed your lips. It has a flavor not unlike rotting wood; it's bitter beyond compare and goes down about as easily as a tall glass of vinegar.
Needless to say, a baijiu-drinking competition makes for a grand way to resolve any debate. It is especially popular at business meetings, where high-ranking officials and powerful executives try to drink each other to the brink of death.
My professor in "Speaking Chinese," whose unsound medical advice was featured in this column a few weeks ago, began a discussion recently on the topic of hobbies. "I have a few hobbies," he said, "The first is drinking alcohol." He roared with laughter.
You don't get tenure at Beijing University through talent alone.
2. Chinglish: In the men's room of a teahouse not far from Beijing University, a pair of advertisements is pasted above the urinals. The first, decorated with a tiny picture of a giant squid, reads:
"The thief begin to criticize his prentice. 'We spend the whole night to open all the strongbox, but every one is empty. Until we open the last strongbox and you say they are stolen from the strongbox factory!'"
The second features a poor drawing of an automobile, and the line, "Your car is not a strongbox." I suppose it is not terrible advertising; if I knew what a strongbox was, I would probably buy one.
3. Trains. I was awoken at 6:00 in the morning while traveling on the T65 express from Nanjing to Beijing. My "hard-sleeper" berth was not nearly so uncomfortable as its name implies. Bunks are stacked three high on each side of each compartment and are furnished with a thin mattress, hard pillow and sometimes-funky blanket. The compartments are doorless and open onto the corridor running down the side of the car.
Most Chinese have no qualms about close quarters like these. Quite to the contrary, it seems that the six bunkmates are often fast friends, chatting away the hours of travel.
Sunlight poured in the windows lining the corridor; outside, rice fields and small villages whizzed by as the train rumbled along. This, however, is not what woke me up. In the top bunk, my head was about eight inches from a loudspeaker built into the ceiling. As is common practice on these trains, patriotic songs blared into my ear, urging me awake to celebrate China's glory. Like it or not, the day had begun, and a trip to one of the car's truly foul restrooms was in order. (You can see the tracks through the hole in the floor).
4. Chuan'r: In simplest terms, chuan'r (chwar) is a snack, a sort of kebab, most often skewered, grilled lamb. It is meat on a stick, or it can be eggplant on a stick, or scorpions on a stick or, really, whatever one might want on a stick. It can be grilled over charcoal or fried in oil, flavored with cumin, red pepper or nothing at all, and is almost always delicious.
The troughs of red-hot charcoal are lit up every night, all night, and nowhere in Beijing is one far from a chuan'r dealer. In the more popular chuan'r locales, the city streets are littered with used wooden skewers. During the daytime, the chuan'r sellers will comb the streets, picking up the skewers for reuse later.
The peddlers themselves are a curious and motley crowd - it certainly takes a swarthy soul to choose a living by staying out in the bitter cold of a Beijing night, grilling sticks of meat at a 3-for-?1 RMB (12?) rate. Still, it is hard to find a chuan'r-man who is not friendly as can be and happy for a bit of conversation.
The meat itself is terrifically tasty, despite being of dubious origin and doubtful cleanliness. More than a few of my classmates have found themselves bedridden and rather uncomfortable after a nasty chuan'r incident, but as with all things, moderation usually makes a good recipe for health.
So enamored am I with this delicious collation, I have been inspired to author an ode, in the traditional style, celebrating the glory of chuan'r. It follows:
O Chuan'r! Thou scrumptious taste of Beijing nightThou stick of tasty meat, thou meaty stickThat give my Bacchic fantasies their flight
Thy charcoal bed with sounds of pop and clickDoes set my hunger in her certain courseI pray thy doubtful past won't get me sick
For Lamb, for Beef, for Chicken wing and HorseVerily I crave to fill the cave withinAnd from ere mournful yearning take divorce
Be my longing lusty greed--be it sinMere mortal man am I, no temper ate godI choose my cursed path without chagrin
So I nightly to your weathered maker trodHis fire is hot, he waits but for my nod!
This concludes junior Sam duPont's column from Beijing. For more information about his adventures, please see his blog at redskyatnight.blogspot.com.
