jamie doom

Hello, brave people who venture here to read my Blog. Some of you have intimated to me that you find the word “Blog” incoherent and too quasi-cyber trendy. You have said you want me to use Weblog instead. To you I say um…no. Also, sorry about my infrequent E-mail and blog postings the internet is often tricky here.

It’s Wednesday in sunny, breezy Haikou. The weather is glorious. The rainy season seems to be officially over. The days are in the breezy high 70’s and the nights dip into the breezy low 70’s. It’s perfect weather for drinking tea outside under the stars, so that is what most of Haikou does every evening. The citizens of Haikou are decidedly not diurnal. During the day the streets are often barren and sleepy. In the evening it’s a different town. The streets are filled with card games and Majaing (a game similar to dominoes that I don’t understand). Sometimes it seems like Haikou’s main industry is food service. Each evening this myriad of restaurants and teas houses fill up, then overflow onto the sidewalks, then onto the streets. As new patrons arrive, shop and restaurant owners drag out card tables and pink and red plastic chairs that reflect the constantly flashing neon lights advertising foods from two dozen provinces. They bring out the tea first and sometimes a menu as well, but the tea is always a given. And the people here are a relaxed laughing smiling lot. And why not? Another work day is gone; the evening is cool, and the tea is strong and green.

Men roll up their pants past their knees and hang their shirts over the back of their chairs. They are always leaning into each others with arms are hanging loosely around each others necks. Tea is poured and secrets are passed out among–all the nodding heads and stained tooth grins at night on the street, on any street, in Haikou. The men of Hainan have a certain, um, reputation. If you ask any Hainan girl about it, they will readily tell you. The men of Hainan are lazy. They don’t work very much, and they drink too much tea and wine and gamble too often. The women work, and work hard, sometimes supporting their families alone. The men wear this leisure like medals of honor. Of course I am the last person in the world who is going to instill a work ethic into Hainan’s men. Besides, they like me. Maybe they can smell the scent of sloth on me. I know I make them laugh though. They laugh at the very sight of me—the insaneness of me coming to China. They laugh at my poor Chinese. When I am eating in a restaurant, they will often catch my eye and raise their glasses—a salute to the guest. Sometimes they just give me that universal salute…the thumbs up. I am here and so are they. We are both happy at our good luck of seeing each other on this evening.

So sometimes I go out and drink tea in the evening and one of my Chinese friends will lean into me. We will then tell universal secrets about things like losing face in front of a pretty girl or the problems money, work, and school. We both nod like brothers; we both laugh about the ridiculousness of life and love. “Life is funny and sad and beautiful and ugly?” We think together. “How do we do it?” Sometimes we whisper about philosophy, metaphysics and family, but usually we just laugh and shrug. “Women? Who can know?”

I frequent a certain restaurant often. When I walk in, they move chairs, turn on fans, and motion for me to sit. As I become more comfortable with my food words, I go there alone more often. They bring me tea and the menu (even though I read no Chinese). I point at a dish written in Chinese on the menu, hoping I remembered correctly where I saw my Chinese friends point when we ate it before. Sometimes the owner will come out after he has cooked my supper, and we will fellowship by drinking tea, smiling and making broad hand motions. With my limited Chinese, I have gathered he is 33 years old (although he looks younger), married and from Szechwan. He and his family: his mother, young brother, wife, and sister run this place. The rice is always fresh and steaming when they bring it to my table. They are visibly happy when I venture out into new dishes. I once ordered the same dish (beef stew) eight straight visits. For a small restaurant, their menu is huge. I once accidentally ordered pig intestines, but smiled and ate as much as I could stomach. It wasn’t too bad. I wondered what the Chinese translation for Chitlins was. Last night I saw one of the sisters taking some fresh sliced apples to a table. I was eating alone (well not completely alone–I had a book), and I motioned that I wanted some apples before my meal. They gave me a funny look, said some things I didn’t understand and approached the table with the apples. The people at the table laughed and shook their heads, “yes.” Then the lady at the table looked at me, opened her purse, and took out two apples. The restaurant didn’t have any apples. These customers had brought their own apples in, and the restaurant sliced them up and served them before their meal. I realized what was happening, thanked the strangers, said I was sorry, and said I didn’t want their apples. They, of course, just laughed at me and gave the apples to the waitress to slice. That’s a typical thing in China—complete strangers giving away their apples because the foreigner didn’t understand. I knew have learned enough about Chinese culture not to even offer the table any money. They would have refused and then acted embarrassed at the thought of me giving them money. I thanked them and smiled and ate all the apples. They waved and said goodbye when they left. I thanked them again. For many people here, I am a guest. They quickly overlook my cultural bumbling and my linguistic ignorance. So last night some strangers gave me apples. My friends, the restaurant family, sliced them and taught me the Chinese word for apple. I only smiled and ate. That’s one of my chief duties while I am here—to get as much of this inside me as possible, smiling and taking large gulps of life.