jamie doom

Journal entry Jan’ 04

Basketball goal in the mountains of Qiong Zhong, Hainan

Mr. Quan says I have a soft touch. He says that is the reason why I can flourish in China. I don’t completely know what he means. He probably means I am really laid back and don’t have a spine. That’s fair enough, I guess. The longer I stay in China, the more I look for the undercurrent–what people are actually saying. And Mr. Quan, while a really nice man, could probably tell me my hair was on fire, and I was standing in a pool of lighter fluid with a gentle smile on his face.

One of the added bonuses to living in China is all the other foreigners I meet. I had a birthday party last month that was attended by people representing twelve different countries–well thirteen if you count Canada as a country (I see Canada for what it is–future parking).

Those of us in China from other countries do have a bond. That doesn’t mean that I embrace everybody I meet who isn’t Chinese, in fact, sometimes I can be rather aloof–mainly because I love Hainan, and we don’t need those crazy Norwegians slinging their slap-dash cell phone towers all over the island and cluttering the streets with cheap Hoo-Doo Voodoo Nokias, but I digress. I like most of the foreigners I meet. They, like me, are having an adventure, and we do enjoy discussing it.

Here in Hainan, it’s different from the rest of China. First, most of the foreigners here that are my age are girls. That’s right, I’ve dated more foreigners since I have been in China than Chinese. Secondly, there aren’t many young, single guys my age. So when I meet a dude from the West who is my age, it’s a good change of pace since most of the time, I feel like I could cut the estrogen in the air with a knife.

Lately, I have been hanging out with Rob, a Canadian of East German/West Indian descent. He’s tall, muscular, good looking, and confident. All the girls think he looks like Brazilian soccer star, Renaldo. His grandfather was from East Germany and escaped the Russians by paddling out three hundred miles through the Baltic Sea. My friend has that same kind of passion and drive as his grandfather. On the other hand, he does not have a soft touch.

We have started hanging out more often because we both play a lot of basketball. He loves to talk trash, which I myself relish, but don’t do as much here in China. It’s really not that fun for me to talk junk to somebody who doesn’t know what the phrase “jank in your grill” actually means.

Yesterday, he and I went played some basketball over at Hainan University–a bigger school than where I live. Rob spit trash the whole game, and let me tell you, that boy can talk. I’m used to it. Most of my life, I have been the only Caucasian on the basketball court, and so I have heard some pretty hilarious stuff–usually directed at me. I spent an entire summer being called “S.A.T’s” at a college basketball camp, because one of the other players said that’s the only reason I was there. I thought it was funny, and I have always been able to talk back and hold my own.

The Chinese aren’t used to it. It makes them embarrassed, angry, nervous, as well as causing them to play a lot harder. By playing harder I mean fouling a lot more. Many of them, especially those not as skilled, become hacks who push and scratch you the whole game.

Rob and I, and yes, I know, everybody can’t pull that hat off

My body aches today from their constant fouls. And my arms looked like I tried to climb over a razor-lined fence. Most young guys in Hainan have pinky nails so long they look like they were extras from the movie Studio 54. When I first got to China, I noticed those long Florence Griffith Joyner pinky nails and thought that Hainan must have a cocaine epidemic. But, after riding the bus a lot and watching closely, I realized that the nails were for two things–first, to compensate for the lack of available Q-tips, and second to prove to everyone around that the person didn’t need to use their hands for work.

And Rob would physically demonstrate how bad they hacked him or me by replaying the incident on them. He got in peoples face. He demonstrated exactly how one might go about cutting their nails if they were so inclined. He threw a ball at one poor kid who was arguing over a foul. I looked on and laughed with amusement. Sometimes I felt embarrassed too. But when Chinese act like a-holes, other Chinese just shrug with a twinkle in their eye and say…”that’s China.”

I had fun shrugging and saying…”that’s Canada.”

Of course, I talked some too, but it was good natured–a soft touch. I was the good cop to Rob’s bad cop. Rob is beast. He goes about 6-1, all muscle, and doesn’t stop going hard the whole game. He’s no pure basketball player. He’s a great volleyball player, actually. But he is quite the athlete. I’m more skilled than he is, and more flashy. I probably have played more basketball over the course of my life. I made the Chinese oooh and ahhhh more, andthat was a good feeling.

Still though, when I was lazy or didn’t rebound, Rob got in my face and yelled at me–told me to grab a “f’n rebound” or “play a little defense for Chrissakes.”

I laughed and rolled my eyes. He yelled at himself some too after he messed up. The whole time he and I talked while we played. We held long discourses about the fluid nature of basketball, philosophy, and jazz. It irritated our opponents to no end, as Rob and I were busy insulting each other while I was scoring over and around them like they weren’t there. We ended up winning about 13 games while losing only one. That one we lost, I just stopped playing because I was tired and felt sorry for the guys hitting me in the kidneys. Rob wouldn’t talk to me for about five minutes after the game.

After the game, a lot of them gathered around and talked to us. The older players, probably teachers, gathered around and talked to me, while the younger players, probably students, gathered around Rob.

It’s been interesting watching how other Chinese and foreigners here react to my good Canadian friend. He’s a smart guy, and he knows that people talk about him. People either like him or they hate him. I happen to like him, but other Chinese I have talked to think he is too arrogant. Some foreigners think he is too pushy or too in your face. Most of these are a older foreigners, and older Chinese. The younger Chinese here treat him like hero. He teaches younger kids at his school, and they love him too.

I have seen laowai misbehaving and have shaken my head in disgust. But when he yells at someobody in a restaurant for talking on their phone too loudly, I shake my head and laugh in amusement. Maybe it’s a double standard. But I have no idea what kind of racism he goes through every day. I have seen it first-hand, and maybe I wouldn’t be as laid back if I was basically the first black person that many Chinese had ever seen in person. I complain about getting stared at, but little of what I experience is ever mean spirited. For him, that’s not the case.

The thing about Rob’s trash talk is that it isn’t for show. It’s really him. He thrives on it. If you realize that, it really does become funny. Later that evening he treated me to BBQ lamb and a foot massage. At the BBQ place, he growled at the chef, “you call this spicy? This isn’t spicy, chump.”

Later at the massage place, Rob was still running his mouth to the massage girl

“No, not my spine, not my spine. Yeah, that part of my back is tight. I figured you would have noticed that right away being a massage girl and all. Girl, you keep rubbing me there, and I’m going to have to pay you double.”

This went on until Rob mercifully fell asleep. The girl rubbing my feet, whispered to me asking me what Rob had been saying. I answered the questions I understood. Running out of things to say, I pretended to fall asleep too. She wakened me when she was done. My feet felt shiny and new. Rob gladly paid the 12 Yuan each ($1.50) for the one hour, and he and I gingerly walked out into the windy evening.

A motorcycle taxi driver near the entrance revved his engine to get our attention. I said goodbye to Rob, and as he was getting on the motorcycle the cabby revved the bike again.

“Your bike ain’t shit,” I heard Rob say as I was walking away towards the street.

Part 1 of a three part series about China and Basketball. Click to see other posts from the archives about China and Basketball.