How BitTorrent Brought Me to ChengDu China (2014)
Not long after my passport arrived in the mail, I pondered the idea of traveling abroad, but did not pinpoint a specific location. My job in Western New York came to a halt, not through termination or lack of work, but unfavorable weather and the notion that after five years, “Skydiving was inherently dangerous and the airport no longer condoned parachuting on its land.” I spent that summer living in a trailer. Picture one of those fancy RVs with a pristine interior, linoleum tiles, satellite television, a gas stove, mini refrigerator, comfy new couches, a warm shower and toilet, then, imagine the complete opposite of that. That was my living situation.
I felt like a hillbilly, without running water and a stove. My warm showers consisted of moseying over to the outdoor hose, near the main hangar, and filling a 5-gallon bucket to bathe myself. I slaved inside the airport for four months as a parachute packer, and for what? To be a crusty?
No! To obtain my USPA Basic “A” skydiving license was the main priority, but in reality, wanderlust gave me gypsy blood ever since the summer of 2013; the summer the adventure began. The summer I sold my possessions after I lost my job as an engineer and hit the road by bicycle on a cross-country tour, without a plan.
Here I found myself on a bus ride home, dreading the long 8-hour stint and misfit characters before me, contemplating what lay ahead without the faintest clue. I was not much for seeing family, but I tried to visit them whenever I was in the area, if possible. For me, moving around so freely became an ordinary feeling and way of life, coming home to family gossip over home-made dinners, and drinking at bars with old friends who bickered about their 9-5 jobs and shitty lives felt monotonous like watching the same scene in Ferris Bueller’s Day Off. I hated feeling stuck in one place. It felt claustrophobic like the anxiety similar to opening one’s eyes inside an MRI. What to do?
My fingers ached from constant, key stroke contact. Not because I looked at too much porn, but my bum ass needed to find work. My old job in Breckenridge, CO, the previous winter of 2013-2014, did not start until November. Despite my constant lethargy, swollen lymph nodes and deathly demeanor, putting up with my mother and curious little sister for two months was out of the question. Mono kicked my ass and part of me regretted partying with my younger brother at Ursinus. But I had no regrets bangin' that sexy, big breasted, 18-year-old, Italian chick. Somewhere in the mix of the crazed beer chuggin', sex, and slammin' Fireball straight from the handle, this illness festered inside of me for months on end, but particularly affected me all of October. Oddly enough, thereafter, I received an email from an old torrent buddy. It brought me back to the days of private torrent trackers (TR and PTN…long live) and the lust for invites, but Hunt (Eric) contacted me for reasons unrelated to BitTorrent.
Hainan Airlines offered a once-in-a-lifetime deal for one-day only. What the hell was Hainan Airlines, a third-party airline, offering rides out of Cessna 142’s? Nope. It was my one-way ticket to Beijing for a mere $267 USD including tax! I booked it immediately without hesitation despite the visa process being a complete pain in my nuts. I was not even sure if the consulate would accept my visa application. After waiting patiently for a month, while hibernating like sleeping beauty, I opened the mail. Nervously peeking inside, I fiddled around for my passport and opened it up to the first stamp page which presented me with a large green sticker covered in Chinese characters across the top with the Great Wall of China disappearing into the background. I studied every tiny detail acknowledging my multiple-entry visa was valid for 60 days upon entry into China. My mind rapidly raced with the thoughts of exploring a foreign country. I did not have the faintest clue of what I was getting myself into at that moment. I took a deep breath counting down the days until November 7th, which marked my departure for the story that lay ahead.
The Greyhound dropped me off in Chicago a day prior to my long 14-hour flight from O’Hare International Airport to Beijing, China. I wandered the streets of Chicago taking a long detour to the airport after a six-mile trek through a plethora of business districts. An assortment of corporate buildings stretched out along the roadways varying in size, but maintaining a similar architectural feel.
Each structure looked like a shiny façade of window panes with different colors as I strolled by each corporation. I stood on the sidewalk; a stint of my reflection cast itself in a navy-blue window, depicting my long, curly locks with a pack slung over my shoulders and a happy grin engulfing my face. With each step bringing me closer to the airport I balanced my feet on the curb walking along it like a gymnast. My eyes shifted upwards and I read the big, red block letters on the sign, which said, “NO STOPPING, STANDING OR PARKING AT ANYTIME.” Suddenly, I heard sirens and flashing lights quickly approaching me and as I turned around the black SUV stopped, pulling alongside of me and parking on the curb. A plump man stepped out of the vehicle with a scruffy, black beard and bald head. The top button of his pants looked like a dormant volcano ready to erupt as he waddled towards me, walking all penguin-like with his arms stuck to his sides.
“Just what are ya doing,” he asked?
A look of bewilderment crossed my face, “Walkin’ to the airport to catch my flight,” I explained. It took a minute for my brain to register that I was at fault here.
“Ya can’t do that here,” he squeaked, as if out of breath from the long walk from his driver’s side door to the curb.
“Why, sir? The sign doesn’t say I can’t walk...didn’t realize I was breakin’ any law,” as I pointed at the sign a few feet away.
“What flight are ya on? I’ll give ya a lift to the terminal…but we really can’t have ya walkin’ this close to the airport…what if ya have a bomb or somethin’ in your bag? It just looks suspicious all I’m sayin’…”
“Thanks…Chicago to Beijing.”
He reached over to his hand-radio, “Dispatch…just bringin’ this young man to the correct terminal…over.”
I chuckled inside. The kind of chuckle originating from an asinine comment like the one the security guard made, but then I strained myself in thought, and realized the majority of Americans do not walk much at all in their daily lives. Unless it’s to and from the car, most people walk on average 1.4 miles per week, so I understood how he thought the backpack and my walking towards the airport made me come across as a potential terrorist. I drifted away in thought waving at the security guard as I entered the airport. I peered at my phone.
The time, 10 AM, plastered across the screen in big, white letters and I knew this day involved an excessive amount of patience right then while I sat, slouched over in a chair dreading the boredom of the next several hours. Stuck in the airport without much to do, but frantically fumble around on my phone. After checking my email for the hundredth time I thought about the movie Terminal Man. The one with Tom Hanks where he ended up stuck in the airport terminal with no home to go back to and I wondered how he did it? I wondered if I might find myself stuck in the airport for days on end camping out in the terminal waiting for my flight departure with no place to go.
How would I pass the time? Sitting here for the past hour knowing my flight departed at 3 PM the following day tortured me enough. I hoped I never experienced the awful dullness of living in the airport for more than one day. I slept many nights on airport floors in the past waiting for early morning flights, but this pushed it further than anything before since I arrived so early. With nine hours until sunset I found ways to occupy my time. Playing games on my phone drained the battery quicker than it charged, which left me with a few options, eating food and people watching. I moseyed on over to the food court, grabbing the smallest salad and drink, I coughed up ten dollars for a meal worthy of filling a mouse, while my spectacles shifted back and forth glancing at the masses of people coming and going.
My face broke out in a subtle smirk as I wondered what people stuffed in their travel suitcases to warrant extra carry-on baggage. Earlier I witnessed many tourists stacking multiple jumbo suitcases on the baggage scales shifting around clothing and other unnecessary items between bags to meet the weight requirements. Surprisingly most people travel this way, expecting to cram all of their prized possessions in luggage, breaking out in bursts of anger and frustration when they forget a makeup kit or their favorite pajamas. I laughed, and wondered when backpackers might stumble into my line of sight. How would their packs fair against my setup and where were they going?
Hours passed as I perched upright in my chair as if sitting on a stoop looking out at the neighborhood. Within that time frame I saw a handful of backpackers all with too much gear for wherever they were going. Their knees slightly buckled as they stood patiently in line waiting for food with their 80 Liter packs swollen to the brim, slung over their shoulders, dangling from their small framed backs, a small hydration system faced the opposite direction supported by their shoulders. I glanced over at my 35-liter pack, which bloated with gear, only weighed 25 pounds to get me through my travels abroad in China for two months.
With some doubt I questioned if I packed enough, a pair of jeans and two t-shirts, a bivy sack, 35-degree synthetic sleeping bag, passport, journal, waterproof cover, ski pants, ski jacket, two pairs of smart-wool socks, thermals, an Under Armour long-sleeve shirt, cooking pot, flint and steel, empty 1-gallon jug for water, two battery packs and a solar panel for my electronics and that was it. I thought it sufficed. With that thought lingering in my mind I heard a faint calling of my name in the distance. I stood up from the chair breaking out into a deep stretch, my ass felt stiff from hours of sitting.
Frizzy black hair, a tired smile and a light Dominican tan greeted me with a hand slap and a hug. My boy, Marien, made it to the airport to visit me after a long day of work at Groupon. The last time we saw each other, nearly six months prior, sleeping on a hill overlooking Salt Lake City train yard while we hitchhiked to Las Vegas. He now lived in Chicago working odd jobs and traveling like myself. He found himself apartment living hoping to save up enough money to venture to Europe in the future. His story of backpacking in Costa Rica inspired me to wander abroad. He dove into bits and pieces of his experiences waking up on the beach surrounded by ferocious, stray dogs; the lulling waves splashing against the shoreline helping him doze off while peering up at the infinite number of stars in the sky. All of this appealed to me. Regardless of the danger, the good and the bad always came with adventure. Amped, I felt ready for what lay ahead. We chatted until sundown then called it a night. I squeezed myself behind a series of airport chairs, laying my body down on the hard, cold tile floor, using my pack as a pillow; I squished it against the support column behind me.
Waking early morning I rubbed the crust from the corners of my eyes and to my surprise I saw Marien slouched in a slumber lightly snoring on an airport chair. He never made it back the night prior. My delicate laugh woke him from his confused state of not knowing where he was. He squinted and looked at me realizing he too fell asleep in the airport and we both chuckled. After brief conversation he left the terminal to head back to his apartment and I sat there counting down the hours until my flight check-in.
The past few days of traveling really took the life out of me as I slowly began to feel lethargic and ill again. My throat felt swollen, eyes drooped and I just wanted to get on the plane and sleep for 14 hours. I sat fidgeting in my chair my leg wiggling uncontrollably from boredom waiting for departure.
Every Chinese person in line knew about the Hainan Airlines deal and they stood there next to me, nearly all eye-level or shorter on trips back to their homeland. Not Chinese-American, Chinese, because none of them spoke a lick of English. Trust me I tried talking to them with futile efforts. Then it rushed into my mind. How the hell would I speak to anyone in China? If the majority of people standing in line only spoke Chinese, what were the odds many spoke little English in ChengDu? None I guessed.
We boarded in the normal orderly fashion the only difference being my flight departed for fucking China, a 14-hour plane ride from Chicago to Beijing over the day-night line in Alaska. So essentially, I missed the day-time upon arrival. I sprawled my legs out as I sat in my window seat. Aside from the much-noticeably bigger seat than Domestic flights, I noticed a small, flat screen television in front of me on the headrest. For a coach flight, Hainan offered three, free meals over the 14-hour ride, and over 50 free movies to choose from, which blew away any Domestic carrier.
The flight attendant spoke in a monotone voice instructing us about departure and then switched to Chinese and suddenly I knew exactly what I was getting into in that moment. Sixty days of sign language, and drawing simple tasks on paper since the tonal tongue of Chinese felt impossible for me to learn. My idea of 14 hours of sleep did not happen. Besides my mind fluttering with the unknown thoughts of my arrival, I evaded kicks, tugging and listened to screeching whines from the adjacent seat. A little Chinese kid fussed while his mother fervently apologized to me. I felt like pulling my hair out, but succumbed to a few movies instead. I wanted to look out the window into the clouds, but noticed the flight attendants shut all of them prior to departure.
My fingers scrolled through the different options on the television screen. With movies, games, and flight information I found myself browsing our exact location. A small dot fixed to a map slowly approached its curved destination to Beijing, China. We approached the day-night line and curiosity of the Alaskan skyline made me spontaneously push up the window. A bright sunset fused along the horizon combining yellows, oranges, reds, and purples in a wave of colors rippling out for miles until overtaken by dark purple and quickly vanishing into darkness.
We were over halfway there and peculiarly enough as we approached closer to China, we reached its own milieu. The smog overtook the sun making every day look like an overcast rainfall of oblivion. Just as I shut my eyes to rest the flight attendant bellowed over the intercom in her robotic voice announcing our arrival in Beijing shortly. I looked out the window and saw nothing in the darkness other than dim lights poking their way through the thick smog. As we landed my eyes focused on the cornucopia of skyscrapers, built inches apart, interspersed throughout the city. Their luminous lights sparkled shining the streets with patterned sequences like a disco ball and this theme remained in the major cities. Chinese characters blinked and lit up the blocks much like Corporate America signage as I caught glimpses of Beijing from the night sky.
Our plane landed safely and I exited towards customs where they presented me with a yellow card to fill out my information, name, date of birth, passport number, and address of hotel or residency, if I recalled correctly. I paused unsure of my address and remembered I wrote down Eric’s address in my email. The next minutes I spent fumbling around for WiFi connection to access it. Walking up to the next free customs agent I presented him with my passport, visa and information card. His stern face demonstrated a loathe for his job as he systematically scanned me up and down, looking at my passport photo, the visa and my information card followed by a loud thump of a red stamp on my passport. My next steps in China marked the beginning of a sixty day period in a foreign country.
My first agenda involved finding an ATM to withdraw RMB, which I located near the entrance of the airport. Money was easy since the system told me my account balance in English, but after that spawned the difficulty of the language barrier in full-effect. I hesitated while I stepped out onto the sidewalk looking for a transportation booth to take a bus ride to the train station for my long 48-hour train ride to ChengDu. My ears flooded with gibberish from my inability to comprehend Chinese, but through the confusion I spotted a glass booth from the waist up. Letters scrolled across the screen in marquees with destinations, but I did not know the name of my next destination.
The cute Chinese girl behind the glass spoke to me. My wide-eyes depicted my lack of understanding towards Chinese while I stood there trying to figure out a way to symbolize the train station. I lacked paper and a pencil to draw a train so I simply said the word, “ChengDu?” like a question. Surprisingly she understood me. I gave her the calculator on my phone to type in the price and she pointed at my ticket circling my stop, the station for Line 7 to Beijing West Railway Station. In that moment I felt like an alien incapable of social interaction making me a pariah in one of the biggest cities in the world.
After standing on the corner for a brief amount of time the bus shortly picked me up on a journey to the South Square Beijing West Railway Station. The bus driver honked the horn repeatedly making the drive loud, bumpy and impossible to rest my eyes as we hit all the downtown traffic. Stop, go, honk, go, stop, honk, as my ears rung from the thunderous sound that came with each press of the horn. I wanted to wack the bus driver, but the noise only seemed to disturb me as the other passengers looked content all perched up in their chairs looking straight ahead like robots. We arrived in under an hour and the relief of stepping off that bus relaxed me almost enough to sleep outside the doors of the train station.
Eric had already squared away my train ticket to make my travels to his home in ChengDu easier for me. I just needed to stand in line and present the employee at the train desk with my passport to print my ticket. The extent of my Chinese was, “Ni Hao” which I figured out meant, “Hello.” She exquisitely tried to accommodate my needs, but eventually called over another employee who spoke broken-English. I felt like an asshole not knowing any Chinese as I stood there in China with a dumbfounded look on my face. But truly I just wanted to explore the culture and wander around for two months until I figured out my next seasonal job before skydiving in New York started again.
I apologized for my lack of Chinese and she presented me with my ticket to board the K117 tomorrow headed to Chengdu on the 8th of November 2014. My eyes enlarged to the size of plums as I peeked at the arrival date. 28 hours from now I would arrive in ChengDu…two days! I thought the endless traveling from place-to-place might never end. First Delaware to Chicago by Greyhound, then a day and night in the airport, then another half day until a 14-hour flight, now a night in Beijing followed by two more days on a train.
I exited through the glass doors looking out into the busy city with no idea of where I was headed. A group of Chinese huddled near the closed doors of the train station sleeping on their luggage and I almost joined in next to them. However, my gear only covered me to 35 degrees Fahrenheit and despite not knowing the temperature my inner thermometer told me otherwise. My confused expression triggered local hotel personnel to weed me out of the crowd like plucking Dandelions from a lawn. They suckered me into an expensive hotel without me even realizing it. I stood there, new to the country, the language, the culture, with an old Chinese woman barking at me in broken English about the only hotel to stay at in town due to a business convention.
“Good deal, good deal,” she exclaimed, never revealing the price on her laminated brochure. At this point exhaustion completely took over my body putting me into a zombie-like coma. She called her boss who sent a taxi out to pick me up. We drove for what felt like an hour in stop-and-go traffic until reaching the front desk of a flea-bag motel. The same flea bag motel that sold me a room key for a 500 RMB deposit along with a hefty room price of 367 RMB for a room I did not want at all. I tried finding something cheaper, but no one spoke English and I ended up with a two-bedroom suite and a computer. At first it appealed to me in order to contact Eric and let him know I was alive, but when I logged on, I noticed every menu, search engine and icon displayed only Chinese characters. Google, Gmail, Facebook, YouTube, and all my other social media was blocked and replaced with foreign companies like WeChat, Baidu, etc.
I capitulated quite shortly and surrendered to a hot shower until I set foot in the bathroom. My shoes wiggled into the small, plastic, sandals provided by the front desk. The shower head came out of the wall across from the toilet with a drainage disc on the floor for the water. It looked intriguing and simplistic. Never before had I seen a setup like this one. I turned the nozzle to hot and without thinking stood directly underneath it waiting for the warmth to caress my skin. The spigot sporadically shot out frigid water which never reached hot, let alone room temperature, sending me into deep, shivering chills. I nearly screamed as I wrapped my body in multiple towels roughly rubbing the droplets of water off my skin leaving behind red marks and Goosebumps. I jumped back into my dirty clothing and nestled into the sheets after stripping the other bed clean of blankets to gain more warmth. Traces of my sickness came back with a vengeance, as I dreamed about the next day seeing the country by train.
I rolled over early morning to meet the driver at the front desk to take me to the railway station. When I reached the desk all the staff changed from check-in and their morning crew now ran the motel operations. This made my life a bit more complicated as I tried not only getting my room deposit back, but held my arms out as if gripping a steering wheel to symbolize a taxi. Everyone turned their heads looking at each other as we all stood there bamboozled. I felt completely helpless and illiterate like a toddler expecting to function as an adult. “Goo-goo, gah-gah” produced the same results as any English that rolled off my tongue so I changed the plan to something more spontaneous and adventurous. I took my deposit back and started walking down the road towards the direction we came the night prior not knowing exactly where I was going.
Beijing lacked districts separating the impoverished from the wealthy as skyscrapers sat in the backdrop of run-down buildings. I walked through ghettos selling anything and everything in little one-story concrete shacks, some extended business out to the sidewalk while others kept all their clutter inside. My eyes tried processing all of the capitalism in a communist country, but it was an explosion of complexity, and too much to take in and grasp. So, I just walked around and watched everyone and everything because it was all new to my eyes. New and inviting and interesting and different.
Welding took place right on the sidewalk without eye protection, concrete wash from construction went directly into sewer drainage or on the street, and everyone used bicycles, motorbikes, scooters, tricycles, took taxis, or walked to their destinations. The drivers, rich enough to own vehicles, blasted their horns at pedestrians, traffic or just out of frustration and it reminded me of a circus act. The poorest people collected recyclables out of trash bins trekking around on their carriage-like tricycles.
Imagine an old Chinese woman in her 70’s all wrinkled, thin, and flaccid pedaling down the road on a rickety, rusty tricycle lugging stacks of cardboard, plastic bottles, and aluminum cans taller than Shaquille O’Neal just to support herself for a day’s meal. It was not uncommon. I saw everything, a new form of life. As my mind absorbed the new experiences, I realized I needed to find someone who spoke English to direct me to the railway station. The first few people in which I tried to communicate spat at me in a nasty tone and kept walking away from me.
A man sleeping in his taxi refused to roll down his window to even acknowledge me as he took his work break. The handful of people I reached out to felt bothered by me from their facial expressions, but just when I lost all hope, one young Chinese student, Yu Ching Cah, in university tapped me on the shoulder and said, “Herro”. He spoke broken-English, but I inquired about the railway station and his hospitality took me by surprise. Residing in Sichuan province his accent differed from that of Beijing’s so he too had a hard time understanding people as he asked for directions to the train station. People pointed straight so we kept walking in that direction block-by-block. He studied translation in his first year of university and took an interest in me because of my nationality as we roamed through the slums getting closer to my destination.
As we walked, I felt the smog agitating my throat with each breath of polluted air. China lacked the laws the United States did to protect the environment, and I now saw firsthand why so many corporations resided overseas. Here, pumping fumes into the atmosphere, discarding their chemicals into nearby streams and throwing empty wrappers and trash right onto the sidewalk was commonplace and legal. No one cared. Life in China involved much construction like most developing countries and the cheapest means necessary to make a dollar.
Everywhere I turned my head a crane popped up nearby symbolizing mass-urbanization and cement production. It explained why so many Chinese walked down the street covering their mouths or wearing face masks because of the dust and bad air quality. In 2014 alone, China produced 2,730 million tons of cement. Their cement production from 1980 onward has increased 3000%, all going into mass-urbanization. Why are they using cement? Because it’s much cheaper than wood or steel, but the downsides are the high amounts of CO2 emissions released into the atmosphere contributing to the endless layer of smog. The Three Gorges Dam used 12 million tons of cement, which was more than some countries utilize in a year (National Geographic: The Power of Parks).
After five minutes of walking, he pointed at the enormous signage off in the distance. Bright Chinese characters displayed atop the façade spelling Beijing West Railway Station. We found it! Its yellow tint and cultural architecture made it a marvel among other buildings I saw along my walk in Beijing. The rooftop design reminded me of old Chinese temples I learned about in history as a kid. The drive from the night before felt way longer, but I assumed so because of my state of exhaustion and the traffic altering my perception. I understood why so many people utilized other forms of transportation. The streets packed bumper-to-bumper with cars especially as we neared closer to the center of the city. The young man followed me all the way into the railway station to see my way inside.
We waved at each other and parted ways. Security checked my passport, train ticket and baggage as I placed it on a conveyor belt for scanning, much like in any airport setting. What differed as I proceeded to the waiting area? Assault rifles! Yes, this sent a bone-chilling tingle throughout my body at first sight. Two guards stood watch atop platforms wielding assault rifles as I approached the escalator to get to the main level. I looked at them terrifyingly as they stood there completely still and emotionless like robots. Everywhere inside and out of the railway station, cameras looked down on society. Big Brother watched your every move on CCTV and I felt my freedoms breached for the first time since I left America appreciating my rights as a U.S. citizen, but understanding we were also a police state with mass surveillance. It was just different here.
My stomach twisted and turned with faint growls and gurgles. I needed to eat, but I did not know what to buy. I browsed briefly and bought something familiar, a few red apples. I slowly realized as long as I did not mind what I ate the simple luxury of using my calculator on my phone eliminated much conversation with the store clerks. I parked my ass on the floor, not by choice, but everyone occupied all the seats in the waiting area. Several people stood around squished together between the isles, some sat on floors or their suitcases and I huddled myself and belongings next to a trash bin slowly counting down the time until departure.
For the next two hours I people watched and learned everyone ate instant noodles, not because of the great taste, but the cheap price. Groups of Chinese men old and young sat in circles playing cards. They played a game I never before saw and did not understand in the slightest. It looked foreign to me, probably because it was, but they always gambled on it. From what I picked up one person or the rest of the group won depending on who lost their cards first so you and your partner needed to beat the lone wolf before he lost his deck. I noticed every person drank herbal tea from their Nalgene bottles, but not the kind of tea with bags. The actual spices immersed in the liquid, floating to the top as a blend of flavor mixed with the water, solidifying why Chinese tea crushed any other.
People headed for ChengDu started lining up in unison waiting for the ticket clerk to open the gate for access to the boarding platform. I stood shoulder-to-shoulder getting nudged in every direction as people slowly stepped through the gate presenting their tickets to a train employee. The aroma of spicy instant noodles wafted through my olfactory glands flaring my nostrils for a few seconds of relief from congestion. We waddled, inching closer to the front and for the first time in my life, I stood at eye level with every person or above them. I felt tall in China with my 5’6” frame. I smiled as I walked through the ticket scanner onto the main platform.
Coughing, sneezing, and nose picking all took place as passengers boarding the train hoarded around me. It only got worse onboard. The confined space made the germs fester and my weakened immune system got the brunt of this torturous, 28-hour, train ride meandering through the mountains on our journey to Beijing. I was the only American aboard too so I spent most of my time in awe looking out the window at the beauty in China’s countryside since my Chinese was limited to, “Ni Hao”. Most everyone else passed the time by gambling on cards, watching movies or sleeping.
As the train entered the country the smog began to dissipate dramatically, but not enough to see the sun. The busy life of bumper-to-bumper traffic, horns honking, and industrialization in full-force took an antiquated turn to a simpler version of life. A life with little motor vehicles, a life with farming, and raising cattle, and a life living in tiny huts made from remnants of trash floating around in China’s wasteland.
Worn down shacks of brick rubble sat there decaying with families inhabiting the inside. They patched the roof with pieces of sheet metal, blue nylon tarps and anything they could to shelter themselves from rainfall. I saw the rich and poor, no in-between.
People aboard the train either wore raggedy, shred-up clothing, depicting low-income working class, nicely fit Armani suits, or expensive, casual, name-brand jeans with collared shirts, belts, dress shoes and man purses signifying hip university students or graduates. The Chinese men dressed very fashionably to portray a sense of wealth and posterity comparable to a metro-sexual’s attire in the United States.
Despite lethargy lulling me to sleep I forced my eye-lids open to see every speck of grass, mountain, and body of water during daylight, but I only lasted until 5 PM. At this time, I crawled up the tiny ladder to my top bunk, shimmying into my tiny bed. My feet nearly dangled off the end and within seconds of shutting my eyes my brain went straight into REM as sickness lingered inside of me breaking free of dormancy.
I awoke 12 hours later to a completely quiet train full of sleeping Chinese people. Flabbergasted from the noise the night before, it shocked me to see the turmoil at a halt, as I was the only soul awake at this hour. I peered out the dark window noticing the lack of lighting in the countryside and the change in speed of the train as we tunneled through the mountain ranges. I felt weak like a limp noodle despite my much-needed rest. Partly because I missed the food cart during my brief hibernation, but also since my throat tickled like a scratch I could not quite reach. All of the yakking, sniffling and poor hygiene of other passengers infected me, slowly bringing down my immune system. As much as I enjoyed the scenery I prayed to sleep on a couch or bed again and cease traveling. But another day remained.
My deathly face was the poster child of sickness. At this point the rest of the train awoke partaking in the same shenanigans as the day prior, adding to the chaos the whines of sick children, who caught the same illness as me. With no communication an older Chinese man, old enough to be my grandfather, handed me some of his apple, boosting my spirits and pumping me full of vitamins. A slender, young gentleman approached introducing himself as Deng Gao Ming.
He learned English through his university and it greatly excited him to speak with an American. As much as it thrilled me to finally speak English again, I just wanted to sleep and get well rested for ChengDu. But I respected his enthusiasm as we talked about the usual, boring, conversation starters and then it shortly escalated to Chinese women. Honestly, I found few Chinese women attractive, but apparently they fancied long, curly hair and bright blue eyes. I sensed a hint of jealousy, intimidation and envy in his voice as his stuttering amplified and eyes glossed over.
He asked why I was in China and after a deep pause I honestly did not have an answer for him. Originally, I came to teach English, but a year contract of smog did not appeal to me. I figured riding out my visa until day 60 and heading back to America to find seasonal work sounded well enough. Out of nowhere he blurted out, “Mare-idge Chinese gir?” Maybe he thought I searched for love? I did not know, but I tired from the questioning and politely scurried back to bed embracing sleep until we rolled into ChengDu Station on the bullet train.
My two months in China felt like a blur for nothing more than stationary living on the 22nd floor of a skyscraper. A month of my time I spent fighting illness from fevers, cold-sweats, chills, lethargy, swollen lymph nodes, a sore throat, infinite mucous, clogged nostrils, achy bones, and just the inability to function like a normal human being, but I managed. I took my chances with Chinese medicine and rolled the die as we picked up the equivalent to Penicillin at the local pharmacy, which did not require a prescription.
Originally, I sought out doctors, but without health or travel insurance the bill for multiple visits skyrocketed so I took the normal recommended dosage for ten days. It was like roulette with a 50-50 chance of a bacterial infection or a viral infection. I lay in Eric’s bed for literally a week barely peeping out the window or leaving his room, while he slept on the couch. I felt bad, but he treated his guests highly in his country and prayed for my recovery. I lived off fruits, mainly oranges, the worst ice pops known to man consisting of a tart paste-like substance and bottled water. Sure enough, after the sixth day, the antibiotics finally started kicking ass and by day ten I felt like a new-bred man ready to experience China at its fullest.
Eric, a young Chinese man in his late twenties with a giddy smile, bulky glasses, a huge head disproportionate to his thick frame and a metro-sexual appeal, lived with two roommates, Christoph and Jelte, in a three-bedroom apartment in downtown ChengDu. Both his roommates took Chinese courses at one of the local universities. The German government paid them a living stipend which covered the costs of school, room and board, and a little extra spending money, which I found quite intriguing, as long as they kept passing grades. Originally Eric signed on as my tour guide to take me places around ChengDu, but since he delayed quitting his job by two months, he only accompanied me twice during my entire stay in China.
Thus, I tug along with Christoph digging into China’s past through its historic museums and monasteries while truly grasping its culture through its ethnic food. Part of me wanted to wander and roam free exploring the vast lands of China and its people, but a fear in me held me back. The fear of living in a foreign country with an uneducated tongue, lack of direction and unfamiliarity of the land made me cling to Christoph’s side like a leech.
Whenever he left to explore, I followed him in every beckoning moment. If he decided to stay in for the day or visit his girlfriend, then I stayed inside watching Chinese soap operas and dating shows in a depressed state, my eyes peeping down below at the squalor wrapped between the myriad of skyscrapers, caging myself like a wild animal. I felt pathetic, but the reality outside scared me, and I needed to roam free on my own a bit first before making the plunge, traveling solo. This was not the right time.
Transportation costs shortly started to stack up despite being cheaper compared to America. We regularly took the subway and split taxi costs on our daily excursions around ChengDu even though I wanted to walk. Christoph enjoyed the destination while I enjoyed the journey. Our travel styles clashed, and I quickly realized I squandered copious amounts of money to afford the pace of his lavish lifestyle. His mentality as a spendthrift collided with my minimalist way-of-life, and eventually I began to break free of his companionship, but for the moment the museums, history, exotic foods, cultural diversity, and partying came with a price, a price I would not trade for the world.
Wires dangled inches from the sidewalk all tangled in barb wired fences as Christoph took me on a stroll outside of the apartment, the only checkerboard beige and brown skyscraper for miles. Cars parked in both directions on each side of the road and Big Brother still watched us from every store, and elevator with our only privacy in the few publicly available bathrooms. Everyone carried toilet paper with them in their purses (both men and women) to go number two and occasionally we saw public defecation by both genders due to the lack of bathrooms. Chinese men and women spat frequently covering the sidewalks in tiny puddles between chain-smoking on their cigarettes.
Every street we walked, I felt imprisoned on the outside of gates, walls and barriers. Sharp, broken, multi-colored glass fragments on top of stone walls lay pointing upwards in the hardened grout to keep trespassers out. The fresh aroma from street vendor fruit stands tickled my nose like a feather, and then the ponding of sewage and filth completely arrested my appetite.
My senses witnessed all of this before making it to the cross-walk. Christoph abruptly grabbed my jacket pulling me back onto the sidewalk. I turned around befuddled with a look of perplexity. I saw the green walking man, but I failed to realize its meaninglessness in China. Scooters putted on by ringing their bells in each direction, cars turned without stopping and pretty much any traffic law ceased to exist on Chinese roadways.
He smirked. His pronounced nose flaring as he shook his head mocking me with slight laughter. He practically saved my life as we dodged traffic like a game of Frogger. Those animated gifs of pedestrians launching into the air like blow-up dummies popped into my mind and I knew the severity of crossing the street without keeping my head on a 360-degree swivel. We stopped into a 711 where he introduced me to Bauzá, a big cream puff of dough filled with greasy meatballs, pork or chicken. My first experience of biting into one ended with hot grease splashing across my face and oozing down my chin.
Instead of the subway or flagging down a taxi, Christoph read the bus schedule from signage on the sidewalk, and we stepped onto a series of buses towards ChengDu East Music Park, where the Chinese built a mall around an abandoned industrialized setting. My eyes captured the vibrant colors of murals painted along bar walls, a particular bar, MP4, enticed the young audience of Chinese singles through a free dating game. We entered the club scene in casual attire and stood in the back watching from the shadows. I still wore the same sleeveless, neon blue, Kurt Cobain, t-shirt and raggedy jeans since I only brought two pairs of clothing to China while Christoph likened the more preppy look of dress shoes, tight jeans with a sports jacket, collared shirt and a tie.
Shy singles nervously sat on the brink of their chairs, sloshing beers back with their single friends circled at round tables, their numbered stickers pressed firmly onto their breast pocket. The men fidgeted while the women batted their eye lashes scoping out the team of fish whom most intrigued their attractive needs. The game host stood on-stage shouting in Chinese as the singles rushed around like musical chairs to find their numbered pair. If the women liked their match, they sat down at their table to mingle, but if not, they moseyed on back to their original seat for the next round, which involved roses.
For mid-afternoon this club popped with electronic vibes, lights, and the alcohol flowed like water as it came in by the case. Christoph leaned against the wall enchanted by the beauty of slender females wearing makeup similar to Mulan. I stood their patiently and nudged his shoulder to leave. A lack of breasts and ass did not attract me in the slightest despite all the thinly framed women dying for an American man; my lack of Chinese minimized my chances anyway. He nodded signaling our departure.
The eccentricity became more common the longer we toddled through the park. Instead of tearing down a part of history, the Chinese built around it, the bright signs and walls of new buildings clashed with the contrast of old abandoned architecture, industrialized piping, watch towers, and smokestacks.
Outside of a café, violins played through the doorway. Chinese men and women smiled at us as we looked closely through the glass doors and listened to the harmonious sounds whispering from the room. They played flawlessly and exquisitely like a church group seasoned for Sunday gatherings. On their short break they sipped their herbal teas and I found myself poking around the next corner bursting out in laughter at a poorly translated English sign that said, “Someone’s Soil.” Our mouths parched from sauntering around the park in the smog so we dined outside to indulge in a few waters and kick back in the sun, one of the only times I acquainted with it through the dismal smog.
The atmosphere around me made me feel out of place, but I liked it. My legs quivered in my chair as we relaxed, shaded from the sun, underneath an umbrella sipping through our plastic straws. We looked at the numerous military personnel standing before us in formation, all of them being honored in a ceremonial setting in their creaseless uniforms. Christoph motioned at the one building which set afire through a small windowpane on the second floor and we watched as firefighters extinguished the small flames. Everyone clapped in a series of applause and I realized the staged fires for the ceremony honored firefighters, not military personnel.
I watched as they dressed in bright, yellow, flame-retardant attire, fumbling around with their helmets like the three stooges. The lot of them broke into the nearby vacant building with excessive force shattering a glass window upon entry to douse another flame. The staged fires continued and increased in size looking more dangerous because if they fell out of a maintainable state of combustion no fire hose or truck sat in the vicinity below to expunge it. Not everything the Chinese did always made sense and we left without ever knowing the repercussions of the staged fires.
Many other instances made me question not just safety, but the ideals behind their construction practices. Why did they build projects before bids took place on skyscrapers? Construction boomed all around the city much like in Beijing. Half built skyscrapers stood there vacant next to decaying one story shacks. Some completely constructed 30-story buildings housed only ten or twenty guests leaving outskirts of the city utterly abandoned.
It made no sense coming from a country like America who practiced Design-Bid-Build to witness this lack of intelligence in their building. Then again, these practices by the Chinese led to many nights of adventuring through the abandoned outskirts of the city and my entertainment shifted from museums and history to urban exploration and crane climbing.
