love letters from my 34th summer

Editors Note: Haikou is replete with motorcycles in general and motorcycle cabs specifically. There are so many motorcycles in Haikou that the government will not issue any new motorcycle registration permits. Many motorcycle taxi drivers try to circumvent this law by getting out-of-town registrations even though they are living and driving their motorcycles in Haikou. The government responds by seizing bikes and not giving them back until they are payd a fine. It’s common to see large, flat-bed, police trucks gathering motorcycles on any given street on any given night. The motorcycle cabbies are a unique bunch. They live a ragtag existence. Many of them have false or expired registrations. Their source of livelihood and transportation is in constant jeopardy, but you wouldn’t know it from the way they act. They gather in gangs of five or six and crowd crosswalks, sidewalks, entrances and exits. Haikou has been called one of the most cheerful and laid back cities in China, and these men are the happiest of the lot. They lounge on the narrow seats of their bikes and spend entire days telling jokes, shouting at traffic, and playfully harassing pedistrians by asking them where they are going.

Regular car taxi drivers are moody, political pundits who charge an arm and a leg. Bus drivers are down right irritable, and the busses are too slow. The bike taxi is my choice—the choice of the common man. It’s fast, exciting (no sidewalk to crowded, no ally too narrow), and is usually half the price of a normal taxi. Here are the transcripts of my exclusive interview with a motorcycle cabbie.

Doom: Hi!

Cabbie: Where are you going?

Doom: I wanted to ask you some questions about your profession. Is that OK?

Cabbie: Sure, but it will cost you fifty quai. I’m busy!

Doom: What do you mean you’re busy? You were asleep on your bike when I walked up. Look, there’s still drool on the seat. I’ll give you five quai to talk to you.

Cabbie: I can’t talk to you for less than twenty-five quai. The other bike cabbies respect me too much. They’ll ostracize me for only charging five quai. Please give me face.

Doom: That’s ridiculous. They were sticking sunflower seeds in your gas tank before you woke up.

Cabbie: OK, twenty quai is a low as I could ever go. Even that is taking a big risk. What if someone needs a bike ride to Sanya (300 K away), and I miss out because I’m talking to you. Surely you understand. Twenty RMB, and nothing lower.

Doom: This is getting too complicated. I’ll just ask the guy sitting right next to you then to talk to me.

Cabbie: OK, seven quai.

Doom: Done.

Cabbie: Before we start, want some sunflower seeds? They smell a bit like gasoline, but they should be good.

Doom: I’ve already eaten. Thanks.

Cabbie: (Laughing) You’re smart for a foreigner. You can ask your first question.

Doom: How did you become a motorcycle cabbie?

Cabbie: Well, I used to be a medical doctor. I was ok. In fact, right before I pursued my passion as a motorcycle taxi driver I was pretty close to having a special cure for that whole cancer thing.

Doom: Is green tea part of that “special cure?”

Cabbie: How did you know?

Doom: Just a guess. Anyway, you were saying…

Cabbie: Yeah, so one day I got on my motorbike because I needed to go perform an important surgery. As I was leaving the entrance of my apartment building an aquaintance of mine waved me down. He said if I gave him a ride to the bank, he would pay me 12 yuan. So we got to the bank. I of course refused the money. He’s my friend. He insisted. I refused. He insisted. I refused. He insisted. I then took his twelve yuan.

Doom: You refused three times, so it was OK…

Cabbie: Right! Then somebody, mistaking me for a cabbie, asked me to take them to the grocery store. It was on the way to the hospital, so I said sure. Five RMB.

Doom: I see where this is going. And at the grocery store?

Cabbie: Back to the bank, five yuan.

Doom: Weren’t you late to the hospital.

Cabbie: Ah, you remembered. But I didn’t. Basically, by that time I forgot I had a surgery to perform, and I was hungry. Plus I had 22 Yuan in my pocket.

Doom: Twenty RMB is a big lunch.

Cabbie: While I was hanging out drinking tea and eating, I met some other motorcycle taxi drivers who kind of took me under their wing.

Doom: So driving a taxi is more profitable than being a doctor?

Cabbie: Most days.

Doom: What do you mean?

Cabbie: Well, I only got paid once a month as a doctor.

Doom: How much?

Cabbie: 8,000 RMB.

Doom: Not bad. So how much do you make as a taxi driver?

Cabbie: Well, right now I’m making seven yuan. I might have to change it to ten yuan if you keep asking questions.

Doom: Well how much do you make in a month as a taxi driver?

Cabbie: Yeah, you are getting charged ten yuan now. Anyway, I get paid every day as taxi driver. Not just once a month.

Doom: But how much per day?

Cabbie: I don’t know. Most days maybe fifty yuan. But that’s every single day.

Doom: But that’s only 1,400 yuan a month. You are making less now.

Cabbie: No not at all. See when I was a doctor, 29 days out of the month I made zero yuan. So, per day this is better.

Doom: I see. Do you ever have any regrets?

Cabbie: They first guy I took to the bank, my friend? I wish I had charged him more. I could have got fifteen yuan for that. It was a long way across town. (wistfully) But we can’t live in the past.

Doom: Who are your influences as far as taxi drivers go?

Cabbie: I get asked that a lot. I think Wei over on Heping Lu has a nice thing going. He hangs out near the five-star hotel and gives fat foreigners ten meter rides to the restaurant for five yuan a pop. He fills up his gas tank once every two months and probably clears two hundred yuan a day easy. I also like Chen on Sun Dong. He’s experimenting with passenger peg placements as well carrying compartments on the back of his bike. Basically, I’m just out to find my own cabbie style. I want it to be what is: the best motorcycle taxi ride of your life.

Doom: So is that your philosophy as a motorcycle cabbie?

Cabbie: It’s more than that. I look at my motorcycle as my paintbrush. The streets, sidewalks, parks, and people’s feet are my canvas. It’s not just a ride, it’s a journey.

Doom: I see. What do you do when you aren’t hanging out here waiting for passengers?

Cabbie: I’m always hanging out here waiting for passengers. This isn’t just a job, man. I can’t switch this on and off randomly like Haikou does their entire power grid. I wish I could sometimes…

Doom: Any advice for young, up-and-coming bike cabbies?

Cabbie: Yeah. First, don’t come on my side of town. Find your own street. My street is Gwo Xing. Find your own. Secondly, pay attention to shock life of your motorcycle. Don’t get greedy and start taking three and four passengers at once. It will ruin your motorcycle. One per ride. Share the wealth with your friends. Thirdly, no animal passengers allowed on board. That kind of business just makes us look bad. This is a new century and new thinking. We need to leave that back in the 90’s. Fourthly, padded helmets are for girls. I have seen some people even riding around with face guards on their helmets. Sheesh, pull up your skirt and find yourself a good military helmet or a plastic hard hat to use. If this is a problem then maybe you are in the wrong profession.

Doom: What about children? Do you allow a passenger to bring a child? If so, how many?

Cabbie: I allow one child per parent. I have always been a big fan of the One Child Policy, and I don’t think motorcycles should be any different. But make sure you wedge the kid in good once you get on the bike.

Doom: Well, we are out of time. Thanks for your time.

Cabbie: No problem. That’s twenty quai.

Editors Note: This account is in no way the work of fiction, unless by fiction you mean that it didn’t happen.

Sometimes all of this is just too much for me. I wonder why I am here in China right now at this moment. Why am allowed to see this? What am I supposed to do with it? I’m inadequate to record it all. My words are too rough and too Philistine to accurately give this flesh. My mind is busy filtering and sorting; maybe I am missing it. But maybe I can catch a peek, a fuzzy slide on the gray wall of my brain.

I spent the half of Wednesday and all of Thursday in bed with a cold. Strong cold medicine conjured dreams of home and fresh coffee. So yesterday afternoon I awoke and went walking to get some fresh air, good coffee, and remind myself I was still in China. It was a little after four o’clock when I started walking, and it was becoming apparent that I had slept through most of a perfect November, Haikou day. It was in the low eighties and the trees planted by the road were making crazy dark shadows which were strewn with bright shards of shattered sunlight. Old couples were gingerly taking their afternoon stroll. Some of them were swinging their arms simultaneously around like swimmers loosening up before a heat. Many of these old couples were carrying with them their reward for still being alive—fat, round-headed grandbabies in split pants.

Some of the old people aren’t walking so much as they are shuffling down the street. Ancient men either in dark suits or bare-armed in white wife-beaters walk slightly bent with their hands folded neatly behind them. With each shuffle they alternately look down at uneven cobbled sidewalk then back up at the less even humanity passing them. Often their eyes meet mine, which gives me pause for these are not eyes of shufflers but of sprinters. There is recognition. Often they smile slightly as if suddenly they have remembered something. Sometimes, I sense the hint of a nod.

At this time of the day, sidewalk and bike path sweepers are out en masse. Their equipment is as course as my memory: large and irregular straw brooms, four-wheeled rubbish carts and metal dustpans. Their uniform consists of wide straw hats and neon orange traffic vests finished with bits of reflecting material. As I am walking, I am stepping over tidy piles of dirt and rubbish. Later, they will return for any piles not leveled by foot of nature. One older lady is diligently making the cobble stoned sidewalk clean. I look closely at her. Her orange vest is covering a smart gray business suit, and she’s wearing matching long-toed high heels as well. Many of the sweepers have forsaken sweeping and are basking in the sidewalk breeze while leaning on their brooms and making glib conversation with shop keepers and fruit venders. I imagine they must be talking about the most important things. For when I approach, they quit talking and look up at me. They resume their discourse after I am five or six paces away—foreigners aren’t privy to complicated conspiracies whispered about by sweet sweepers!

School is now letting out. In contrast to the plodding, platinum-headed sages, hundreds of uniformed children are running frantically from those horribly confining institutions. Most don’t see me at all; the ones that do looked surprised before showing me a gapped-toothed smile which is sometimes accompanied by a brave, adventurous “hello.”(I may tire of “hellos” but never from them. They can sing it to me as often as they like. And I never feel more sincere than when I am smiling back at them.) Then they are off, back to the extraordinary business of being young. But usually, they don’t see me at all. They only see each other; others, large adults especially, are only props to hide behind or obstacles to swerve around. Unlike the adults inhabiting the years between youth and old age, these children are occupied with far more interesting things than a random foreigner walking by. Two young boys in identical uniforms are slurping at identical ice cream pops. Arms are slung carelessly around each other’s necks, and they are laughing hilariously about it all. Universally, children’s laughter is medicine. Indeed, “it’s sweet to your soul and health to your bones.” My cold is beginning to clear.

I continue my stroll past a new park; older middle school and high school students, also in uniforms, are lounging on ridiculously green grass under tiny trees. From time to time, they prop themselves on elbows to spit sunflower shells into the wind. Their communication is less frantic but no less lively. Boyfriends and girlfriends are getting their alone time here. It’s apparent; they are in love. They are alone in front all of us sidewalk pedestrians, beeping taxis, and fellow students. The rest of us could be banging on pots and pans with large wooden spoons while screaming loudly, and they would scarce look up. Their world is two people, and it has little to do with the other world. Blah! At least they could hide their happiness or feign some distress for the rest of us sad wretches.

Soon, I am crossing traffic. The secret to arriving at the other side of the street safely has little to do with cross walks or green lit pedestrian signs. I have learned this much here in China. Walking across traffic is about singularity of purpose. Once you begin your journey to the other side, don’t slow down; don’t look around. You will only confuse the matter by acknowledging the busses, taxis, or motorcycles that are hurtling towards you to cause your certain doom. As the primary damage inflictors, they have the responsibility of beeping and swerving. If they are going to hit you, they will beep loudly; then and only then should you look up and see what the situation requires.

I’m across the street now. I walk past a dirty homeless man, completely naked, sleeping under some steps. A large carwash is busy washing cars less than twenty feet from where he sleeps soundly. Mercedes and BMW’s gleam and drip in the afternoon sun. Blue-uniformed car washers pop their towels and stroll around admiring their work. The air is filled with car air freshener and the stench of something decaying. Next to the car wash, a gold-toothed street vender is using a newspaper to fan the coals under thick sugar cane.

Soon I arrive at my supermarket which is a nice modern place only recently opened. I stock up on chocolate, Maxwell House Coffee, Jiffy Peanut Butter, and sliced Kraft Cheese. Sometimes, I wrongly imagine that these make me more at home in a culture so different from my own. But then I remember that home isn’t a building or food or a location on a map. I think it’s the people that you know and love. It’s being known and loved. Maybe that’s why Thomas Wolfe said we can’t go home again. People aren’t static. They change and become. So these days in China, I am feeling a little bit more at home; not because I have identified with a bit of “real” coffee, but because I have identified with some real people. Slowly, sometimes too slowly, I am beginning to notice less and less of those easily caricatured preconceptions and more and more of that familiar life.

In China, most of this is still beyond my comprehension. Some of it remains inscrutable. Maybe I will never be privy to all of it or even most of it. Much of it is my fault. I walk past naked homeless people and quickly change my thoughts to the business of car washes. I don’t want to think about all of it. I can’t. But I’m happy to catch glimpses.

Today I took a walk to the store. On the way there, I think I saw 1.4 billion people; but I can’t remember them all. I’m trying; but when I close my eyes, it’s all shattered sunlight under cool shady green. Old couples, bent slightly at the waist, shuffle eternally towards me. And somewhere children are laughing.

I have agreed in principle to spending USD $80.00 for a Thanksgiving turkey. What kind of sucker pays almost a C-note for a turkey? The kind that would come on his own blog and brag about it is what kind. Being the lone American bachelor in my school means I have acquired guilt over never preparing food when we have parties and shindigs. To remedy this, I am responding to my slacker guilt the proper American way–by buying myself out of it. But here in China with the same $80.00 I can buy:

1–Roundtrip Airline ticket to Hong Kong. I can go out to nice restaurants and hangouts where I can practice the word for pretentious in both Mandarin and Cantonese. Hey, Hong Kong! Anything you can do, Shenzhen can do better, and cheaper, all without creating ten new boy bands in the process.

330–Trips to the supermarket on Bus 39 (Authentic Chinese Bus smell is gratis).

330–Trips back from the supermarket on Bus 39 (Authentic Chinese Bus smell that is now permeating my groceries…gratis).

26–Massages by a blind guy with big forearms. He will give an amazing massage; he won’t relinquish his cigarette. Watching the cherry burn on the end of his cigarette while he massages foreign guys draws large crowds of cheering, betting fans. Advantages of having a blind masseuse: he doesn’t snicker at the large “Hansen Rules” tattoo covering my back. Hey we’ve all had lapses in judgement.

94–DVD’s. All of them pirated. Most are filmed from the rear of a theater filled with 128-Ounce Big Gulp slurping, middle-aged men with miniature bladders, huge prostrates, and tall hats by a nervous, asthmatic cameraman who chews popcorn with his mouth open and kills the boredom by playing with the zoom button. Half of them will have their real closing credits inexplicably replaced by the closing credits to that classic art house film Ski School.

2–Chinese Bio-Engineers/Rocket Scientists working round the clock for one month straight to clone the same turkey then send it into space for one complete orbit of the earth. That’s right and for only eighty bucks. Is it that labor is so cheap in China or so expensive at NASA? Everybody knows NASA uses all those extra billions on fancy catering and new videogames for their geeks…er I mean employees. And what do we have to show for it? Velcro. I say you can have your turkey orbit the earth, and eat it too.

Before I begin, let me make it clear that I am not claiming to be the greatest English Teacher. I am not an English teacher. I have taught English though. I have a great deal of respect for all ESL teachers, but I do claim to be the Greatest English Tutor. How can I claim this? Read on.

1. I Incorporate Ancient Chinese Stick Fighting into My English Lessons. When Mr. and Mrs. Linda’s Parents first approached me about teaching Linda (see picture), I looked deep into their eyes (I’m am able to look deep into four eyes simultaneously) and asked them, “Do you want Linda to simply learn English or do you want her to learn English AND learn how to beat people with ordinary households sticks(see picture)? For just a few more RMB, I can teach your daughter more than English; I can teacher her a way of life—the way of Fluent English Speaking/Ancient Chinese Stick Fighting.” At first they were skeptical; but in no time, I had them seeing the value of a Bi-lingual, stick-swinging four year-old. Now, not a day goes by without them thanking me for transforming their cute four-year old into a chatty, English-speaking warrior. Now their only trouble is forgetting to hide the brooms and mops before they tell Linda (see picture) to go to bed or turn off the cartoons. But I think that’s kind of cute.

2. I Supply the Stick and the English Books. That’s right. Not only do I supply years of Native English Speaking experience and Ancient Chinese Stick Fighting experience*, but I also supply the stick…and the English books. Notice Linda’s stick (see picture) is purple with pink trim. What four-year old little girl wouldn’t want to thwap somebody’s noggin with those cute colors? I invested much thought into the color of her stick; and let me tell you, she loves it. In fact, one time I brought her back some children’s English books from Shenzhen, and she looked through them once then asked where her stick was. That’s dedication, and that’s knowing your stick color.

3. I Only Have One Student.** Linda (see picture) is my only student. She solely receives my vast wealth of English and Ancient Chinese Stick Fighting knowledge. I hate to brag (but I will), but Linda (see picture) has rapidly become one of the top English-Speaking Ancient Chinese Stick Fighting four-olds in all of China. Don’t let the cute face fool you. She’s a killer. I have seen her ruin people’s day with ordinary household sticks (see picture). Also, because she is my only English student I can tailor her lesson plans so she never learns stupid English words. Which bring me to my next point:

   1. I Don’t Teach Stupid English Words. You will never hear Linda (see picture) say the word “hello.” In fact if you greet her with “hello,” you are just as likely to get a mouth full of stick as any other response. Linda (see picture) says “hi” like normal people. To explain why “hello” is so harmful here in China , first let me give you a little history. A long time ago China invented a little something called “Chinese water torture,” here in China known simply as “water torture.” In the ancient past, this was an effective means of making people crack/tell them secrets/agree to let them have the Olympics. But this is a new century now, and their methods are much more subtle than water torture. Now they use the ingenious “hello torture” instead. Some people (foreigners for instance) are subjected to thousands and thousands of “hellos” every day. Like the drops of water before it, it doesn’t seem so bad at first. At first, like the water, it seems refreshing. Quickly it becomes too much. Everywhere these people go they hear thousands of “hellos.” It usually ends tragically with some timid ESL teacher going crazy and punching some poor street vender in the face, getting kicked out of China , then going on Dave’s ESL Café and complaining about his school. Other useless or harmful English words or phrases I shelter my pupil from are: “politically correct”, “Yesterday Once More” and “boy bands.”

4. I Have Never Visited the Dave’s ESL Café Website. Somebody told me about it, and I took their advice and never visited that website. So the way I see it, I’m automatically five times smarter than any ESL tutor who has.

*Note # 1. You may wonder how I am such an expert at Ancient Chinese Stick Fighting. Perhaps, you have observed, I am neither ancient nor Chinese. Well, let me ask you a question. When did you become so narrow? Maybe if you would quit going to KKK meetings, you would have more time to read a little something called…books. Maybe then you could broaden your mind. But no, no, it’s much easier to stereotype people. (I enjoy getting upset about my own hypothetical questions. Is that wrong?) Also, when I was young, I was alone in the woods a lot (something I did?). My parents also never bought me toys. One day as I was trudging glumly through the woods alone and bewildered, I suddenly looked around and saw a forest full of sticks—Ancient Chinese Stick Fighting Sticks that is. These sticks became my friends and soon my world was changed. Years later I learned English as a native language. The rest is history (see picture).

**Note #2. Next summer I will be leaving China and going back to America . By then, Linda (see picture) will be getting on with the business of taking over the world with her stick; meanwhile, I’ll be available to teach English and Ancient Chinese Stick Fighting. I realize with the proliferation of MTV, video games and well…the Internet, most children in America can no longer use basic English words. I will be searching for one worthy pupil. Please don’t E-mail me though. I’ll find you.