In China: Toughing It ~ by Edward Brewer

In China

Toughing It

By Edward Brewer

They tried again and failed. Yep, Sunday, my dearest and closest Chinese friend tried to kill me again. And again. And again. Three times they tried to "off" the big, over-weight, tall, pony-tailed guy in shorts and with beautiful white skin. I thought they came close, but I'm still here. Now for the details.

The Foreign Affairs department of the Corporation had made arrangements for me, an interpreter and some people from the Foreign Affairs office to go on an outing to visit a mountain retreat, nearby. They also hired a driver and mini van. So far, OK, but, the people from the Foreign Affairs office turned out to be the department chief and his deputy, the top dogs, so to speak.

The mini van was an old reject from the car pool, no shock absorbers, no cushions to sit on, and, did I mention, no breaks? And did I mention that neither the driver, nor any else in the mini van had the foggiest idea where this place was located? Mr. Wang had a brochure from the tourist office with a map on the back. Ever find one of those maps the least bit accurate? And then, throw in the Chinese language. Might as well have been on Mars. But soon, the driver stopped and asked directions. We were headed in the wrong direction. Actually, every 15-20 minutes, we stopped and asked directions. We had to change directions three time. Real good information. And did I mention that the hired driver couldn't drive? Aim the mini van down the road, but drive? Never!!!

Needles to say, we made it, eventually, to the resort, dirt path and all. Nice little place. Had to pay to get in. Had to pay to park. Had to pay to use the WC (bathroom). Had to pay for a tour guide. Gee, just like at home. The day was very hazy, the sun up there somewhere, but not in sight. And did I mention that the humidity was thick? And did I mention it was hot? Very HOT!

And, yes, there was this mountain in front of us.

Not like the Rocky's in the US, but a super large hill all covered with green. And did I mention that there was a tropical rain forest at the bottom of the hill? And at the top of the hill, I later found out. And did I mention that as soon as we got out of the mini van we were attacked? I've never been dive-bombed by so many and so ferocious mosquitos Smack! Swat! Smash!. Squish! Damn, I knew I should have played sick and stayed couped up in the hotel with air conditioning. Too late now.

So we head up this stone path. And up. And up. And up. They're trying to kill the big, over-weight, tall, pony-tailed guy in shorts and with white skin. Sweat? Gallons of the stuff flows out of my body. And this attracted even more of the dive-bombers. I had to stop so often that I thought I was going to faint from lack of blood. Those little tramps must have got, collectively, a good pint of that precious, high-class, rare-type blood that cascades through my body. Or did.

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Today, being oxygen-deprived, gasping for air, I just had to keep moving. If I stopped I was dead meat. We were so far up that I know the birds were getting nosebleeds. The group would disappear from sight only to be waiting for me up a few more steps. I'd join the group and they would take off like a bunch of mountain goats. Grin and climb. Grin and climb. I was even tempted to cut off my pony tail to lighten the load, but I didn't. Hell, if I weighted only 110 pounds I'd bounce around, too. But double that, plus a few more pounds. No wonder I was soaking wet with sweat, pockmarked like I had some form of rare disease because of all the bites. Gasp, climb, grin, climb. They're not going to do me in. I'll show them. And I did. We made it to the top of the mountain. I think.

Here, at the top, I expected a grand, glorious site, a moment for a photograph of a lifetime, something worth all the effort I had expended. Wrong. Hell, they didn't even stop. I took out my camera to take a picture and the group was gone, out of sight, trotting down the rocky path towards the bottom of the mountain. I wanted to cry. But I didn't. I started trudging down the rock path, one foot ahead of the other. Sure enough, just around the corner was the group, hands on hips, all waiting and watching for me to make an appearance. And grinning. And so it went, down the hill.

The mountain goats scrambling a few hundred meters down the path, and waiting. And Grinning! Me? I decided to plod along. Damn, going down hill is much easier, except for the knees. And did I mention that the dive bombers were still around? I was so exhausted I stopped swatting the darn things.

One thing I'll tell you about these rock paths. They were built by Chinese, Chinese with small feet. My size 13's hung over every rock step. I thought I was going to fall on the short steps so many times; I'm sure my finger prints are an inch deep in some of the bamboo trees I grabbed just to keep from falling. Ya, the tropical forest had many, many bamboo trees. And many other plants and animals, like snakes. The tour guide would stop and wait for every snake to safely traverse the path before proceeding. And there were many other little "things" flying around making fun in the liquid flowing down the outside of my body. Three hours up, one hour down.

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Something wrong with this! The long climb up became the quick climb down. I didn't know there was a time limit on the mountain.

We got back in the mini van, climbed in and headed down another dirt path to somewhere. You know, they know I don't understand a word they are saying but they think I do, I guess. Hell, all I do today is hang on and watch. Quite a lot to look at, though. Change is really happening, almost before you eyes. New construction everywhere, anywhere. New apartment buildings. New industrial complexes. New shopping malls. New, new, new . . . and then mix in the old, 200, 300-year-old stuff. It's really amazing. They're building highways and building so fast just to try to keep up. And they know it's a lost cause. Can't keep up with the movement, the expansion, the explosion of people and jobs and cars. But they are trying.

All of a sudden the beautiful 4-lane highway we were traveling on turns into a dirt road. Again. We stop. The driver points in one direction. One of the guys from the company points in another direction. I'm told that we're trying to find a "famous" seafood restaurant on the coast of the Pacific Ocean. Oppps, where's the ocean. Can't hide that big pond of water. But I don't see it. It's too hazy, too hot, too humid. Can't see anything. I wanna go home!!! We turn left. Stop. Ask directions. Turn around!

Yes, the dirt road we're driving on is on top of the dike between the Pacific Ocean and the man-made lakes where they are growing their own fish supply. Ocean on the left. Water on the right. Hope the driver keeps us on top of the dike. And he does, and we get to the restaurant. Mr. Wang asks, "What kind of seafood do you want? Seafood?" Like I had any choice. If I did, no one would have noticed. I thought to myself, "I just hope it's dead when I see it on the table." Some of it was.

Then I discovered what the Chinese cure is for all those mosquito bites we had suffered. Or I did, you know, the sweet white meat of a Yankee. You get stinkin' drunk, so drunk you don't feel the bites and the itching. And you know what? It works. We started with the terrible-tasting Chinese liquor they all love, and I mean love, Mao-tie or something like that. I call it kerosene. It tastes like kerosene for the next two or three days, at least. Then follow that with Chinese red wine. Glassfull after glassful. All those pretty young girls pouring keep right on pouring and pouring. Then follow that with bottle after bottle of Chinese beer. I think they're trying to drink me under the table. You Know? Not a bad idea. Maybe I'd find company under the table. Hell, after a while the only thing I wanna bite is the waitress. Any waitress. Any where.

We all made it through the meal of good, delicious, seafood. Very good seafood. But, I think that just about every Chinese person I've met wants to prove that they can eat something that I won't. Or can't. Wrong. I'm just dumb enough to try anything. I prefer to call myself adventure-some. I pretend to show reserve, but, "IF you eat it, I'm gonna eat it!" I think I'm still alive. I know once the stinkin' drunk starts to wear off all those mosquitos bites begin to itch. And itch. And itch.

We get back to the hotel and I profusely thank my hosts for just a wonderful day, I think. I know they're sloshed out of their mind, too, so they disappear, quickly. Me? I get up to my room, strip down to skin leaving a trail of clothes from the door to the shower. There I turn on the water and wait for it to get hot. And it does. And so do I. Damn, made it through another adventure, I think. I'll know tomorrow. Hell, it's almost dinner time. More fancy hotel restaurant delicious treats, I think.

And I'm still alive...