For my family, it was a never to be forgotten or repeated experience of living in a Communist controlled country with little freedom of speech or movement. We were allowed to travel without a pass and guide for only a radius of ten miles.  We were supposed to shop only in the Friendship Stores, exclusively for foreigners, using special currency only obtainable with a foreign passport.  So, I missed out on being able to buy a pair of magnetic shoes I once saw being sold in a Chinese department store with promises of health, happiness, sexual prowess and even the restoration of youth!

Our furnished apartment was located in a grim, grey, fourteen storied, Russian built, cement building with metal window frames. The front room balcony overlooked the main road, which was a great source of interest, making up for the horrendous daily noise of traffic, the ringing of bicycle bells, and the bone rattling thump of the farm tractors, cleverly adapted to double as family transport, driving by. On the road, and sometimes right in the middle of it, I saw men wearing white coats and bright red armbands, emblazoned with bold Chinese characters. These would-be professional drivers have to spend one month studying the traffic before taking any driving lessons. No doubt only the courageous pass that test! I needed to have a Chinese driving licence to drive to my office, but only had to pass a health test to get one as I had an international drivers’ licence. My blood pressure was taken on both arms, to my surprise, but the doctor explained that the readings could be different. I passed the test and was issued with a small, red, folded cardboard document written in Chinese characters, including my surname, which literally translated as “drinking soup in the forest”!

Another balcony, on the other side of our apartment, overlooked the compound and we were high enough up to see over the wall into the Chinese area, where the occasional boxing match took place.  Across the road in an open field, there were sometimes PLA (People’s Liberation Army) training exercises, with and without guns, to be watched.   The guns were never fired, fortunately, as the soldiers took their turn with soccer teams.  Sometimes the turns got confused.   It was quite a sight to see a PLA group advancing, with guns at the ready, right through the middle of a soccer game in full progress! Occasionally the local children joined in, lining up in straight lines like the soldiers.  By afternoon, the ground was empty and here and there the grass struggled to take hold.   With so much footwork and so little rain, this was scarcely possible.

There was a marvelous park near our apartment, in which there was a very small Ching dynasty palace, which had a flower-filled and most peaceful courtyard, a restaurant, handicraft shops, small hill-top pagodas, fountains, ponds and a pavilion.   There were lots of lovely trees and winding paths to follow.  Very early in the morning, people came to the park to perform Tai Chi, practice their singing and shouting and walk their birds in cages.   The birds seemed to enjoy this outing and get together with all the other caged birds as they sang themselves silly.  They also got swung upside down a few times inside their cages to strengthen their tiny ankles on the perch!

I was taken to the theatre to see an acrobatic and magic show for two superb hours in the ancient Erqi Theatre off an alleyway in an old part of the city.   Not only were the acts amazing, but the fact that they could be performed on such a tiny stage was incredible.   The audience was mixed, relaxed and stared unashamedly at we foreigners as they ate bags of sweets, threw peanuts on the floor, talked throughout the performance and seldom applauded the incredible acrobatic feats requiring great skill and courage. I also attended an evening of Chinese opera, dramatizing ancient legends with music, song and very skilful acts, including throwing various war-like weapons across the stage.  I was not comfortable sitting in the front row for that part of the performance!

My office was in a new building at the Beijing University of Foreign Languages, the opening ceremony for which I attended.  After the speeches, firecrackers went off with loud bangs and a hose was taken up on the roof, and turned on to pour copious amounts of water down all the outside walls – an ancient tradition to ward off evil spirits.   I hoped no-one had forgotten to close a window!    The room I was allocated to administer the project was furnished with two desks and chairs, a chesterfield and coffee table, red (for good luck) curtains on the two windows and an ancient manual typewriter for the Chinese secretary, Mrs. Rui, to use.

I flew off to Hong Kong to spend project funds on two electric typewriters for myself and Mrs. Rui, two photocopy machines, in case one broke down, and an air-conditioner that doubled as a room heater.  I was given a used carpet for the cement floor, which was freezing cold in winter.  The air-conditioner cum heater needed to be installed in the wall, which caused a problem of some magnitude because the wiring system in the building was not suitable for the amount of wattage required. This task took one year to accomplish and on days when the temperature fell below freezing and I could not move my fingers, I took my work home to the well heated apartment.  On other winter days I bundled up my body in silk lined woolen slacks, sweaters and a feather-filled, quilted ski jacket.  I also wore boots, mittens and a cashmere scarf to the office.

Workers in the building were all members of a Chinese unit or Communist cell.   They followed instructions from their leader, but demonstrated a democratic process when an attempt was made to remove our project driver, Mr.Hu, from duty in favour of another driver.   Mr.Hu stood his ground and won his case to remain as the project driver.   I was never privy to the reasons for his dismissal or restitution, but glad to see the right to protest upheld.   I had a Chinese counterpart, co-project director, Mr. Wang, who I picked up on my way to the office every morning and drove there in the project car.   Mr. Hu drove the other Chinese project workers, including Mrs.Rui and my Canadian project assistant, Sheila, in the project mini bus.

It was very difficult not to hit a cyclist on the roads as there were literally eleven million of them, mostly proceeding along designated bicycle paths but, without any warning, such as hand signals, they could swerve suddenly into the traffic.  The vast majority of cyclists seemed to have no idea of what a car could or could not do, like moving sideways to avoid collision.  Sadly, some were injured every day, but none by me, I’m glad to say.

As a Beijing resident I had to be “gonged, walled, tombed and ducked”!   That is to say, visit the Gugong (Forbidden City), the Great Wall, the Ming Tombs, and dine on Peking duck.   The three most famous duck restaurants in Beijing are affectionately known as the Big duck, the original restaurant, the Sick duck next door to the capital hospital, and the Super duck, located in a multi-storied building seating 2,500 people in 41 dining rooms. All 10-20 course banquets were washed down with the infamous Maotai (liquor with a very high alcohol content), by male guests at the end of every toast.  Women could choose to drink beer, mineral water, orange pop or sweet Chinese wine.   We sat around a large circular table, in the middle of which was a “lazy Susan” on which the dish for each course was placed.   The host always served the guests from this dish with chopsticks, stretching out an arm and not dropping the food before reaching each person’s plate.  This required skills I had to learn fast for when my turn came.  In order to get through all the courses, the trick was to eat very small portions.  Not sampling every dish would offend your hosts.  Those banquets were a wonderful way to surmount the language barrier as not much conversation was required and everyone had a good time.

Foreigners visiting Beijing on official business were greeted with overwhelming hospitality, escorted to their hotels, welcomed and farewelled with lavish banquets, shown over the local sights with interpreter-guides, (still dressed in their Mao suits, as was every Chinese seen in public at that time), and generally treated with paternalistic care such as they never experienced before!   For those of us fortunate enough to have lived there for two years, it was a never to be forgotten experience. 

 Kaixin - This is not the China of today! It is the China of 1982 just 3 years after Deng Xiaoping started to open China to the world. The difference between the China that Kaye experienced and now is stark. It shows just how far China has progressed in terms not just of economic progress but in particular social progress. Beijing is now a modern world city, there are no restrictions on movement and the city bustles with colour.

The one thing that has not changed is the genuine welcome and hospitality of the Chinese people.

Kaixin - 'The bridge of Heaven and Earth' captures the sound of a native speaker of Chinese using English as a second language. It also touches on that sometimes fraught aspect of Chinese society, the filial relationship.

 
We speak in words made of pictures, you and I. Sounds made of ancient brushstroke, intonations etched into thousand year old paper. It’s always the same, even after all these years. We don’t converse. We wade through a sea of equivocation. It’s not language, it’s code. And like the spider weaving its web of lies – shwor hwuang, ‘to say lies’ – you knew the code intimately.
I was the stupid fly.
Do you even understand, Ma?

I undestan! Dawta you have no respec – boo tswun jing. You say I paint bad pic–chores. But Chinese vewy beeutifu – mei li de – beautiful, yes. You no appreciate me, my shi sheng, my – sacrifice. Spida, spida, you call me spida wiv bad web, and you the fly. Ha. You no fly, you hok – hawk, lau ying – been flying too long in westen sky, wiv westen clouts. And wain. Rain.

Sacrifice. That’s so typical of you, Ma. Always playing the victim, the Taiwanese pop sensation that had to give up fame and fortune because she got pregnant with me. To this day I still think you called me Fu Shing – ‘Lucky Star’ – out of malice.

Fu–Shing. Ru–k–ee. Ruck–y. L. – Luc. Lucky. Star.

That room. I remember lying next to you in bed; two hermit crabs huddled in a giant cardboard shell. Watching you sleep. Anxiety wrinkles slowly spreading over your face, the feeling that I was somehow the source.
You never heard me cry.

Evewy night I dreeem. I am on stage, dancing wiv music evewywhere. There is bright light evewywhere. People shiao my name. I am happy. Vewy happy. Then I wake up, open eyes. A small room. No house, house gone now. Only small room I live in now. And I in middle of boxes – s–surroouund–ed. My life now all boxes. I look for album – called Fu Shing – my first, one that made me famous. I call you, my dawter, same, for luck.

Luck? You blamed me for everything. I became the marker. The point where your dream ended and reality dropped. Like a stone in water, ripples disrupting the still, shimmering surface. You gave all our money – the house baba left us – to your younger sister. Now tell me, was that my fault?

I was stuupit, okay? – stuuppiid!!! – I cry. Lot. How many time we talk of same? My sister do busi–ness. She neet money. I give, I give. It is tser ren – duty – to family, but she no return. I haf to sell house, no help from dawter, dawter choose study, no become pop star like mudder.

Pen over microphone. One of the few choices I had left to make.

You see? You see? You admit! – So I haf to sell house. Ower house. Sell evewysing. My ling hwun – soul. My dawter, you no around. You no help. Never help.

You gave birth to a daughter not a cash point.

All I haf was Buddha for comp–p–any, no one else. Vewy lonely.

You carried Buddha around. You told me it was for luck, for people to see your piety. But I have another theory I’d like to share. I think it was a punishment you inflicted on yourself. A constant reminder. The Buddha was everything you weren’t: compassionate, selfless, accepting. A mother to her children.

Anyway. Gods lef me. I haf to move. Evewysing. Take all my life, the broken pieces of my histry. His–to–ry. Aw in torn boxes. Fu Shing, you say throw away, throw away. Evewysing. But if do, then I lose the red band you give me for present, like red band on your wrist, I wear around my wrist also. Togeser.

You often talked about it like it was fate, like the gods abandoned you. But they gave us choice, Ma. It wasn’t tser ren or charity – chr shan – that made the money leave your hands; it was greed, the promise of a good return on your “investment.” So you gave it all away to Auntie Li Nezha.
You were swindled, plain and simple.

Swinde. Swindel. Swindle.

When you told me – a secret you carried for 11 months, and only because the mortgage repayments were spiralling – I hugged you, remember? And told you I loved you and would always be there for you. But you never acknowledged the help I gave, the money Baba left me when he died, it all went to keeping us afloat. That’s when I stopped being a child.

Child? Child? At 17 I take care of parents, your granmudda and granfadda. I give money, they spend my money.

But the house was taken anyway. Auntie Li Nezha may have stolen your ling hwun. But you took away something I could never get back: time.
I was 16 then. We were homeless.

I don’ rememba being child.

You certainly acted like one, refusing to throw away all your crap when we lost the house and had to move to more “modest” accommodation. My legacy, you called it – mostly dusty video cassettes, torn black and white magazine articles with your name and picture in them, knotted memorabilia from your pop days – but I didn’t want any of that past. I wanted a present. A future. A mother. Why couldn’t you just be a mother?

I had to throw my life away. All I have now are scattered stains of memory: word whispers, dead light, faded dreams. Shi sheng is my burden also.

Dat room, dat dubbel room. Was like my grave.

Your grave, my prison. Don’t forget, I was there too. Crammed into a cold corner, studying for GCSEs and A–Levels amidst a sea of bleached yesterdays.
Grave.
Grave.
Always the drama queen.

Dwama queen. You always call me. You don’ kno pain. I use to sing, I famos, go to dinner party, tok to film star–s. Now I Laundry Assistant – Laauunnddrryy – hate word. Laundry. Wash cloves in ol people home. Das why you leave me. You shame of me. Ashamed.

I was never ashamed, Ma. I had to make a life for myself. For us. So I moved out when I went to University, I couldn’t study and live for the future while you insisted on clinging to a dead past.

Oooniversity.

Yes, to become a Teacher. And I couldn’t have been prouder of you.

Teech–er? No money in teacher. Should be model or pop star. Then we live good.

You always said that. I don’t have the energy anymore. I have my own family to feed now, lessons to pass on. I’ve said what I needed to say, Ma.

Energy, energy. You young, you haf time.

Time. You’re right. Now everything is different. I’ve grown older, wiser. Dispersed my words, anxieties and fears into the wind like seeds, scattered them across the land. As a child, I always wished that something beautiful might grow and bloom from all the woe.
And now something finally has.
A small flower of remembrance. Melliferous, resplendent.
A story you told me as a child. The myth of the Dream Tea Lady.

You stiw remember? After evewysing?

Of course: how, when people died, their spirit travelled to the Bridge of Heaven and Earth, and in the middle was a shimmering golden gate leading to the afterlife. You stood in a queue and waited your turn to crossover. Time didn’t exist there. 20 years could pass in the blink of an eye for you.

But befo you cross owa you drink tea from lady at gate, tea make you forget abou life, abou pain and suffwing. Abou dawter.

And I asked how we would find each other, in the afterlife, if we couldn’t remember.

The red bands, around wrist, they are tse nann tsun – kom–pass – help to see, to find. Eechozer.

I remember. That’s why I bought two, one for you; one for me. I’m still wearing mine, even now.

I watch you long ee–nuf now, standing in line. You stiw remember. You stiw wear band. Me too. I happy. See you egen some–day.

In Mandarin full stops are hollow circles, not thick black blobs like English. To me they just don’t carry the same finality. Like there’s really no end. Like us. After everything. You’re still my mummy. All I have left now are your boxes. Cardboard echoes. And these words: I love you. Mummy. Goodbye.

Ok now, I go now, people waiting behin me. I must drink tea.

So, on the night of 08/08/08, our small family of three huddled together in front of the television, in anticipation of the Opening Ceremonies of the Olympics. Jade was even more elated that this special occasion had allowed her to stay up hours past her routine bedtime. Fondly reliving his time working in Beijing, my husband pointed out his favorite landmarks, as the camera offered a preview of a city ready to explode with pride over the spectacle they were about to place at the world’s doorstep. I held Jade’s hand, every once in a while reminding her that Mommy and Daddy had traveled all the way to China, just to adopt the best little girl in the universe. “I know,” she gurgled in response, her mouth full of laughter.

And then it started. 91,000 spectators sat at attention in the Beijing National Stadium, also known as the Bird’s Nest, as 2,008 Fou Drummers performed on a backdrop of a giant LED paper scroll. My jaw dropped, as I witnessed the perfect synchronization of a country ready to stick out their chins and unleash their carefully guarded power on the world. “The drummers were told to smile,” the commentator informed a shocked American television audience. “In the dress rehearsal, the director decided that the performers looked too intimidating, so they were all instructed to smile.” Little did they know that those perfectly pasted smiles would scare an already insecure world more than any grimace ever could. In perfect formation, the drummers lit their drums to collectively form digits, both in Arabic and Chinese numerals, to countdown the final seconds to the Games, 8pm local time, on 08/08/08. I glanced over at my husband to witness his “I told you so” smile, while Jade jumped up and down, applauding in excitement.

Unable to look away for even an instant, our multi-cultural family witnessed fireworks, flying fairies, and human paintbrushes creating art on a giant scroll of white canvas paper. Chinese history was glorified with the appearance of terracotta soldiers and a Beijing Opera reenactment. 2,008 Tai Chi masters in white performed with super-human fluidity, as they demonstrated on command their perfect harmony with nature. Brightly colored lights created flying birds to symbolize the rebirth of the phoenix, while the subsequent segment depicted the arrival of the modern astronaught. A 60-foot, 16-ton ball structure emerged to represent the Earth and to provide 58 acrobats a platform to tumble in every direction on its rounded surface. Gasps of awe reverberated throughout the Bird’s Nest, as the ball was suddenly transformed into a Chinese red lantern. Tears poured down my cheeks, as Sarah Brightman and Liu Huan sang the 2008 Olympic theme song, “You and Me”, while 2,008 performers held out parasols with smiling faces of young children.

As the grand opening led into the Parade of Nations, I finally unglued my astonished eyes from the television screen and turned to find the peaceful face of my own young Chinese child, curled up asleep between my husband and I, her two pillars of protection against a sometimes harsh world of judgments. Together, we gently scooped Jade up and tucked her innocence into the crowded bed in her room. We moved aside countless favorite toys and clothes to find a tiny space for her to rest amongst her belongings. In the beginning, I had tried to convince her to keep a neat bed, but quickly learned that the pathology ran too deep to instantly reverse. In the Chinese orphanage, where she spent the first 22 months of her life, she had been forced to share everything – her toys, her clothes. Nothing had every really belonged to her, until we came along. And now, she was convinced she still had to keep her belongings close to her, or they would be taken away. A quick routine inspection under her bed that night revealed a cup of water and a half-eaten snack. She also had learned early on that food was scarce, so she snuck food and drink into her room, hording it for some anticipated famine.

My tear stained cheeks guiltily welcomed more tears; this time, tears of heartbreak over what my daughter had endured. As I lay in my own American bed that night I struggled with an onslaught of conflicting emotions. There was sadness, of course, for my daughter’s past. Jade had been abandoned when she was five days old at the entrance to a hospital. I assumed that her birth parents had felt forced to abandon their baby girl in the midst of a “One Child” policy and a culture that covets male children to carry on the family name and care for the parents in old age. Then Jade had been diagnosed with congenital heart disease, which deemed her “special needs” and meant that she would need to spend even longer in the orphanage before she would be released for adoption. How difficult her existence there must have been.

Then the anger came, as boiling tears burnt my already raw cheeks. Where had the government been? Where were all of those perfectly centered souls when my daughter was crying out in the night, cold and hungry? Why couldn’t the Chinese government have taken the $100 million dollars it had cost to produce that elaborate Opening Ceremony and given it to those starving orphans? Why couldn’t those 15,000 Chinese performers band together to synchronize a relief effort for their own?

“One World, One Dream” – that was the theme, but that spectacle wasn’t my dream - no matter how proud I felt when those drummers performed with perfect precision. Yes, I had been proud - proud to say that my daughter had descended from such perfection and grace! But, what now? How could I teach my daughter to be proud of her birth country, when I felt such ambivalence?

As I cried in the dark, I realized that the Opening Ceremony had also been filled with children. Their innocent faces flashed behind my eyelids, as I struggled to force out the perfectly synchronized demons haunting my reasoning. Those children had no choice in how that money was spent. They had no vote, no voice. They were innocent, just like our American children. I had to, therefore, believe that China was filled with adults who were also innocent, who had no voice. They were not to blame for how their leaders chose to govern; any more than we, Americans, are to blame for the mistakes of our leaders. I would shutter for the world to think that my president’s choices had been my choices. Sometimes they had been, but usually they had not. How dangerous it is to begin lumping people into categories. “Those Chinese are all about appearances.” “Those Americans are all wasteful.” “Those blacks….” “Those whites…” “Those Jews…” “Those Christians…” Haven’t we learned anything from the past?

While my daughter faces a lifetime of struggles revolving around these issues, I vow to continue to teach her that she is a gift to the world, just as each child is. Our world’s children grow into our world’s adults, who have the power to enact great changes in our often apathetic world. As Jade grows into her role, I pray that she will become an example of a creation that crosses all borders. “One World, One Dream”. The Chinese had the right idea. There is no “them” versus “us”, just “we” Now it is up to us ALL to make that theme our reality, one innocent child of the world at a time. WE will get there.

That night, I slept fitfully, kept tossing and turning, and drifting in and out of shallow dreams and memories of the past. Eventually before the day broke, on the morning of 12 May 2008, I got out of bed, eagerly anticipating the visit of Ming, my best friend from school, and Xiu, the girl who once hit me with a rusty hoe and nearly killed me when we were both fifteen while working in the peasants’ field one summer during the Cultural Revolution.

“Why don’t you visit us in Mianyang?” Xiu had enquired the day before. I understood her hospitality, and we had not seen each other for three decades.

“We are completely exhausted from our trekking to Zhangjiajie. Before that, a hectic university reunion in Chongqing. It’s better that you come and see us in Chengdu. Ming will be here too.”

Each left their homes miles away that fateful morning, for a mini get-together in the provincial capital. There were much gushing and excited exchanges. Xiu, just as I remembered, still loud and enthusiastic: “I called Feng earlier. He’s coming to collect us for lunch.”

“Another feast?” My husband John had raised his hands in mock horror. Then patting his belly, he said: “I’ll bail out this time. Besides, I want you to enjoy yourself, without having to interpret for me. Have fun!”

Feng had already made a round of calls to ‘summon’ former classmates within travelling distance. He only managed to get hold of one, the chubby faced man now sitting on my right. I looked across to my Mum. Her glass was full and plate piled high. Earlier they had insisted on picking up my mother, once head mistress in our school.

In front of me, a glass of beer, a small china cup with strong Chinese spirits, and a tall glass full of freshly squeezed melon juice. Two waitresses stood by, attentive and hawk-eyed, ready to refill our glasses the second they became empty. The VIP dining room, lavishly decorated with western oil paintings, with gold patterns on dark red background wallpaper, high-back velvet soft furnished chairs and an exotic Tibetan carpet. To me, it was another example of China’s catering for its new middle-class. Despite the summer heat outside, the room was suitably chilled.

The glasses clinked happily. Feeding our eyes were the bright orange shells of the prawns; the dark red beef soaking in the red chilli source, sprinkled with green spring onions; the steamed river fish appearing almost alive and ready to jump out of its oval plate; and numerous other colourful and hugely appetising poultry and vegetable dishes, expertly cooked and beautifully decorated on fine china and pottery.

“One more, please,” I asked the waitress who was holding my Cannon digital camera at the far corner of our sumptuous dinning room.

Suddenly, the building rocked, shaking violently from side to side. I lost my balance, head spinning. Had I really got so drunk or was it one of my migraine attacks?

“Earthquake!” Feng called out. For a moment, everyone was too stunned to move. The glasses started falling over and smashed. Chairs took on a life of their own.

“Run!” someone shouted.

Chaotic and panicking, people shouted and ran frantically, the air heavy with fear.

In my mind’s eye, I caught a glimpse of John, up on the 13th floor of Emeishan Grand Hotel, falling. I wanted to run to him. Outside, diners were gathered, unsure what was happening. I saw an old man being carried out. He was either too shocked to walk, or had suffered a stroke. Everyone was in different degrees of panicking state. The earth under our feet continued to tremor. I felt as if I was in a stormy sea, disorientated.

I dialled John’s number with my China and UK mobiles. No joy. Around me, everyone was trying to make calls but nobody was getting through.

“Let’s get out of here,” I turned to Feng. In his car I said a little prayer in silence: dear Lord, please let me find John alive and safe; fear was gripping me at the same time. The five minutes in the car seemed to take forever.

When I saw the highest building in the five-mile radius still standing, a relief washed over me: He must be OK.

Hordes of people were gathered outside. The security guard stopped me: “Nobody is allowed in. All the guests have been evacuated.” He looked deadly serious and business like.

“Have you seen the ‘Laowai’?” I asked him. In our hotel John was the only ‘Laowai’, or ‘Old Foreigner’, a local nickname for non-Chinese Westerner.

“He wasn’t in when we evacuated, but I saw him going out that way.” He pointed at the side street. I knew instantly where I could find him, the outdoor public swimming pool across the road. He was the only one still inside the fence. “This is the safest place to be,” he stressed, wise and calm.

The earth shook time and again and the aftershocks punctuated our conversation, waiting in the streets with hundreds of others. It was evening before we were allowed back into the hotel. Lifts no longer working, we had to climb the 13 flights of stairs. The cracks on the walls and debris on the floor told their own story.

Information slowly filtered through that it was the worst earthquake in Sichuan, with 7.9 on the epic centre Wenchuan, northwest of Chengdu. Still no phone connection, we managed to get onto the internet and contact our family in the UK. John also sent an email to the BBC website.

The following day John’s mobile rang continuously. “It is CNN;” he mouthed to me, as he walked away from the breakfast table. Somehow his phone number was passed around, to UK and USA media, and calls just kept coming in, all wanting a piece of his story.

Being one of few western eye-witnesses, John’s testimonies were to appear in various UK newspapers, and his voice on the radio. Instant fame. One friend heard him speaking on Radio 2 as he drove to work in Cheltenham. His wife immediately emailed us: Is that really you in Chengdu? Another family of friends were shocked to see our photo on the front of The Birmingham Post.

That evening, John was called again by Fox News in America: “Mr Kirk, you’re now live. Can you please tell us what you were doing at the time of the earthquake?”

I heard John repeating the same information for the umpteenth time that day: “I was in a swimming pool, when huge waves started, as if I was in a sea. Then there was this almighty roar, like thunder. The building next to the pool started to rock and sway violently, and I heard people shouting ‘Dizhen, Dizhen’, which I now understand as Earthquake.”

He told the interviewer what his wife was doing and how my friends were now unable to go home, due to damage to road and rail systems. In fact, Xiu’s house was destroyed – had we agreed to visit her, instead inviting her to Chengdu, where would we be now?

“How do you think the Chinese government is doing in the current situation? Are the Chinese people happy with their response?” The interviewer probably had a list of questions in front of him, expecting to hear criticism about the Chinese officials. It would make good news-feed.

John was too smart: “I think the Chinese government have reacted promptly and efficiently. Their Prime Minister was on the scene already, and as I speak, I can see Army Lorries passing by our hotel window, no doubt heading towards the disaster area, doing rescue work. Compared to what Bush did when the Hurricane Katrina in New Orleans, I’d say that the Chinese are doing a good job…”

Before he could finish though, the interviewers interrupted him: “Thank you, Mr Kirk”. I gave my husband my big thumb. We both knew that they would not call back.

For the next few days, aftershocks continued. One of my uncles visited Dujiangyan, where many of his colleagues were based and then disappeared under the rubble. He brought back many heart-breaking stories, of school children buried and whole towns disappearing under piles of concrete, bricks and stones. Every day on TV and newspapers, stories of sacrifice, bravery and survival were reported. Never before in China had I seen so much live reporting in the media, so much support from all over the country, and from all over the world. Unlike the Tangshan Earthquake in 1976, when the city was destroyed and most of its citizens perished, the outside world had known little. This time, it was different. The whole world watched and shared China’s grief.

The affected towns and cities will take a long time to rebuild. China, after many years of isolation and political upheavals, has emerged stronger than ever before. Like a phoenix, Sichuan will rise from its ashes.

‘Why not China?’ my seventeen year old daughter defends. ‘I’ve learnt about China in Geography…and it will be different from anywhere I know. Why not China?’ she repeats.

‘Because,’ I cast about for a metaphor to explain, and seize upon the colouring book that my five year old is busy over. ‘Because when I think of China I see nothing reassuring, nothing familiar, no colour. Only grey. People dressed in grey, shoulders stooped, heading into grey factory smoke, or shuffling home in grey twilight to grey flats.’ From a family of five children, my girl will wilt without the warmth of people, and without beauty. But the set of her lips clamps my own tongue. She can be as contra-suggestive as a young child.

In red ink, I mark her departure day in my diary. It is one of those diaries where each page is footnoted with a gem of wisdom. With a wry smile I realise that D-day is footnoted with a Chinese proverb: A closed mind is like a closed book – just a block of wood. I note ruefully that there is no follow-up advice on how to open my daughter’s mind to all she will miss with her single-minded choice.

Her final school exams completed, she defers her university place, works two jobs, squirrels away her money and takes night classes in conversational Chinese. And she reads…books about China, its literature, its history, its culture. She offers them to me, but I cannot bear to look. Her excitement grows in direct proportion to my dread. As a successful ‘Gap’ applicant, she completes a course in teaching English as a second language. She receives her ‘Working with Children’ certificate, her passport, her visa. Each step she marks with a tick on her ‘to-do’ list. Each tick fuels my trepidation.

At the airport, she clings to family and friends and is the last of her party to be swallowed by the double doors. Perhaps she also sees only seven grey months ahead.

The phone call of panic comes a few days later. She is sharing a comfortable flat at a boarding school in Quanzhou. Yes, the people at the school are friendly, her British flat mate pleasant, but…Her first lesson, a lesson she and I (a teacher) had planned so carefully, had fallen flat. No, it wasn’t exactly a disaster; but, and she says this on a gulp, the children (aged 12- 13) had NO English. No, they didn’t riot, but they were restless. No, she will not come home. What do I take her for – a quitter? She just wants to brainstorm ideas to get over the impasse. Her assigned teacher is helping, too.

In the next phone call, she babbles with excitement. The children are ecstatic about learning oral skills through games. Shopping games to learn food vocabulary, name games, guess the object, races across the classroom to introduce themselves to as many classmates as possible with newly acquired English. I wonder aloud at the noise level. She assures me that it is controlled chaos – and that ‘her’ children have been complimented on their progress in English.

Could I have designed a more rewarding placement for an 18-year-old thousands of kilometres from home?

She is challenged. On a school visit to Dehua, an industrial town set high among mountains, and famous for its fine porcelain, she is greeted like a celebrity with students crowding around for autographs. She judges a recitation competition in English of which she writes in an e-mail: ‘The students all managed to finish. A few forgot lines or stared at the floor; others were very confident, played music in the background and got very involved using body language. One little boy was so enthusiastic, I worried he’d do himself an injury.’ To an audience of a thousand, including parents and staff, she gives an impromptu 10 minute speech on ‘Public Speaking in English’ After a tour of the town, she sits down to a banquet where she relishes something new – fried bees! ‘Yup, as in buzzing bees, fried with ginger and quite tasty.’

She is nurtured. News must have spread amongst the staff that she and her gap partner are planning a trip to Tiger Leaping Gorge for a holiday week. Summoned to the deputy-principal’s office, this woman with a school of thousands to administer takes the time to express her misgivings to the girls. Although I know my daughter will not be dissuaded from an adventure, I am touched by her interest and care. Resigned to my daughter’s determination, the deputy principal assigns a staff member to help the girls plan their trip safely. They return to the school triumphant, having trekked through a breathtaking natural wonder and met welcoming locals.

And she is included. On her return to Quanshou after her sojourn to Dehua, she had thought it was the close of a long day. But no – two local teachers are waiting to whisk her away to a wedding of another staff member. It is the third wedding she has attended in three months. She is invited to students’ homes to meet their parents, and takes part in tea drinking ceremonies steeped in tradition.

Five months and her time at the school is over. A new challenge. She and her English friend will cram in as many sights and experiences as possible in two months.

From Shanghai she writes: ‘A really welcoming city: from the Bund, with its colonial architecture, back-to-back designer shops and spectacular city views to the peaceful, tree-lined French Concession, the ‘Old Quarter” (very traditional Chinese), the night-life with ‘Vegas-style’ lit-up streets, to the back streets which are still quite underdeveloped. Had a blast going to the top of an 88 floor building in a lift that went 9 metres a second! (so fast you don’t even get sick).

From Beijing she writes to her little brothers and sister: ‘When it comes to historical monuments, something that is 200 years old is relatively new here! But at the same time there are new buildings going up everywhere. Our tour guide joked that Beijing’s bird symbol is a crane (as in double meaning – crane, crane. Get it?) In the afternoon we went to the Summer Palace (where the Emperors stayed in summer) which was so pretty because it is set on an enormous lake and surrounded by ancient gardens. And in the evening, we went to a kungfu show which was just possibly the best stage show I’ve ever seen. Like ballet, except it also involved monks smashing metal bars on their heads …extremely cool.’
From Guiyang, Guizhou Province, she writes of a bus that brought them into town in the middle of the night. ‘A taxi driver took us to several hotels before finding the only one that was still open – a 5 star place for over $500.00 a night. We were just starting to despair as this city, surrounded by mountains, is literally freezing cold, when the manager took pity on us and offered us a room for a 95% discount.’ As my husband commented, ‘Would two cash-strapped girls have found such compassion in Australia?’

From Yangshou, a small old town surrounded by sandstone cliffs, she tells us: ‘Took a cooking class. Heaps of fun. Expect some authentic Chinese steamed dumplings when I get home.’

And after a trip to Guiyang, she says: ‘We nicknamed it the city of ‘hats and snacks’ as the old men (and some old women) stroll around in big trench coats and fur hats to fend off the cold. At night the city becomes a marketplace, with people selling all kinds of delicious snacks every couple of metres, from different fried meats on sticks, to popcorn, kebabs, pita bread, glazed fruit and so much more! A delicious assault on all our senses! As we walked to the station, it began to softly snow and the city looked beautiful. On the 17 hour train ride to Chengdu we shared our little cabin with two charming elderly Chinese men. We passed the hours teaching each other Chinese/English.’

When I think of China now, I see images of vibrant colour. Warm smiles of welcome; rich architecture; children bubbling with excitement.

Thank-you China. I have not visited you yet. But you taught me the truth of that proverb printed on the diary page which marked my daughter’s departure: A closed mind is like a closed book: just a block of wood. Your kaleidoscope of people and wonders has opened this closed book.

Just who did you do the most for, China? The daughter who left home a shy teenager, and returned a confident citizen of the world? Or her mother, who never left Australia, but to whom you provided a rich and colourful distance education?

Footnote: GAP: an organisation providing opportunities for post-secondary students to teach, provide outdoor activities and help in health areas abroad. It is now called Lattitude

Like all Singaporeans, times had been difficult for the Ay family during the Japanese occupation. Their son, Ay Tat Him, suffered malnutrition and contracted TB. Now the consequence were in December, 1949 he was dying.Heartbreaking, he was a young man of my age, not yet nineteen years old. His whole life should have been before him but instead his traditional Chinese family began to make arrangements.

I don’t think my boyish skin had not known a razor yet and I was naïve in the ways of the world. My friend Jimmy Chang took great delight in educating me, a young gweilo, in the ways of the local Singaporean Chinese community. Also it was through Jimmy I got a job on ‘The Straits Times’ newspaper as a free lance reporter. I was paid for what I produced. The editor asked me to cover a strange story of the Ghost Wedding for his English readers. The events that I relate here are fact.

Most of the Chinese in Malaysia and Singapore were superstitious about the idea of a death occurring in their homes. It was apparent that Ay Tat Him had not much longer to live, so his relatives quickly transported him to a ‘death house’. In those days ‘death houses’ were part of the Chinese tradition and in Singapore they were found in Sago Lane in the heart of Chinatown. These places combines a number of functions connected with mortality and the trappings of spirit’s departure from this world. In the Chinese eyes every thing has to be preformed correctly to enable the soul of the departed, an easy journey into the spirit world. The role of the ‘death house’ corresponds to the undertaker of the West but their responsibility is something more than this, for they also arrange for the services of geomancers, Taoist and Buddhist priests, professional mourners, Bank Notes of Hell paper-money scatterers, brass bands, and lanterns. In the ‘death house’ the family may hirer one or more rooms to be set aside as a lying-up place for the mortally sick. In addition there may be a mortuary and another small room for housing temporary spirit tablets.

When Ay Tat Him’s relations decided that he was near the end he was moved to the ‘death house’ in Sago Lane. Before he died, he told his parents that he was being pulled in to the spirit world by a girl from the after life. He told them her name was Cheng Yoke Lim and he also revealed to his grieving parents that she was buried in a Chinese cemetery in Whitley Road. The boy seemed pleased when they told him that some of his relatives knew where the cemetery was. He now appeared to be happy and then faded away. As his last breath expired from his body he was laid out ready for washing in the main room of the house. The family submersed in deep old Chinese tradition, according to old custom, the principle male relatives left the house in a group and walked silently with heads lowered in grief to the nearest well, preceded by the eldest brother carrying a bucket. After solemnly filling the bucket with water a few copper coins where thrown into the water to pay its guardian spirit. This practice is known as "buying the water". The little procession then returned to the ‘death house’ and the water thus "purchased" was used for washing the dead body. The whole premises were then be swept and cleaned in preparation for the visits of condolence.

The deceased was then dressed in his funeral clothes and laid out in state in the coffin placed on two trestles. At his feet was placed a lighted candle signifying light; the yang principle in the yin-yang cosmogony. Yin-Yang are the fundamental principles of life and the sustenance of all that exists. By their interaction Heaven and Earth were created and all the creatures of the universe. Yin the negative or female principle in nature and is the opposite of yang, the positive or male principle. In this connection, yang denotes "sun", "light", and "warmth", which are necessary for the spirit of the newly departed soul to entering the ‘Other World’. It also serves to guide the hovering spirit, for if there were no light the spirit would probably lose its way on its journey. In this case Ay Tat Him was fortunate in that he had a ying spirit guide in the form of Cheng Yoke Lim.

As was the custom, a small bag containing the five grains rice, a mirror, symbolic of yang which is also used for lighting the way, and other small things which Ay Tat Him valued in his life. The empty spaces in the coffin were packed with paper money to ensure that Ay Tat Him was not short of ready cash when he arrives in the ‘Other World’. Also packets of slaked lime were placed in the coffin, to keep the coffin dry and preserve the body. For according to the Chinese belief, the returning spirit will have an intact body for its abode during its future transient visits to earth.

The relatives gathered to witness the sealing of the coffin which is not normally closed until all are present, although obviously this is not always possible especially in the heat of Singapore. Four nails were used, one at each corner of the lid, with small pieces of red cloth or paper caught in it, to drive off any evil spirits that may be hovering around. The edges of the lid were then sealed with mortar or putty to make the joint as air-tight as possible. With all this traditional ritual to perform, the grieving parents put aside what their son had told them about the spirit girl.

Some weeks later Ay Tat Him’s mother had a vivid dream in which her son appeared.

‘I have chosen my bride’, he told his mother. ‘Her name is Cheng Yoke Lim’.

In the morning the parents discussed the dream, and suddenly, the boy's father remembered what his son had said on his deathbed. The family went straight away to the cemetery in Whitley Road and searched through the graves for many hours, but without success.

'After all’, the Father said, ‘T he girl might have been buried a long time ago. Maybe her grave is no longer there, but if our son has made his choice. We will carry out his wishes.’ So a Wedding Ceremony was arranged. A Taoist Priest was asked to go to the cemetery and invite the spirit of the dead girl to go with him to Kim Lin Temple in Yan Kit Road. The priest and the Match-maker then went to the dead boy’s house in Kim Cheng Road, Tiong Bahru, and preparations for the wedding proceeded according to Chinese custom were made, as if the bride and groom were still alive.

The arrangements were completed. The priest escorted the spirit of the bride to the house, in a trishaw.
'The Ghost Couple were married at night and wedding gifts were symbolically exchanged. These consisted of paper models of a house, a car, furniture and cooking utensils. In fact, everything needed to set up a home. Thousands of dollars of paper money were burnt, to help the couple in business in the ‘Other World’.

For through the alchemy of fire, all these things would reach the spirits in-the World Beyond.

Shortly after the wedding ceremony, the boy’s mother had another dream. ‘My Mother’, he said, ‘I am very happily married, and have gone into business as a money lender’. There was now great happiness in the Ay family.

It is all quite true and I have given the dates and places to prove it. The wedding cost the family about 2,500 dollars, quiet a lot of money for those days. There are people still living in Singapore who witnessed the Ghost Marriage’ and I was one of them. I attended the Wedding with my Chinese Friends.

I wrote a piece for my paper. The editor like it, published it and I received my first pay cheque. The Ghost Wedding had brought me good luck.

This morning, walking in Lu Xun Park, I slowed, and then stopped, to watch a man writing traditional characters on the footpath using a large calligraphy brush dipped in water from a plastic drinks container. By the time he had completed a line of text his first characters had already begun to evaporate. Further along, sitting on the edge of the path practicing characters was an older man with a beard. At his feet was a puddle of unintelligible words. Buying breakfast from a stall in Tina ai Lú I silently held out a handful of coins for the young girl selling baozi. Having just arrived in Shanghai, and my only Chinese being nihao, I could only point and hope she understood. A small child smiling on the back of a pushbike repeated phrases her mother sang as she peddled passed one of the street’s corner fruit and vegetable stalls. Language I realized was something I had taken for granted; now words were unfamiliar, and I felt more infantile than the child on the back of a pushbike repeating her mother’s song.

But I also experienced something other than a sense of alienation as I held out my handful of coins at the baozi stall. There was something more. The characters written in water evaporating on the warm concrete footpath, and being stepped over by passing pedestrians may have been unintelligible to me; however the gentleman’s practice, his gestures were not. The young girl, with a prod from her father, selected the correct coins from my palm and handed me my meal. At a gallery opening of the Beijing artist Guo Lizhong at Studio Rouge, just off the Bund, Guo, Cath (my partner), and I tried to talk about the artist’s work. He did not speak English, Cath spoke rudimentary Chinese, and I none. We called George, the gallery owner over to ask if he could help, and when either myself, or Guo or Cath spoke, and George translated, we all looked toward him. We were standing close to each other, but our gaze excluded, usually, the original voice. George had become, however fleetingly, the one being translated, even though we could each have reached out our hand and lightly touched the one who had posed the original question or had just commented. It was as if being translated amounted to our being diminished as a person. But given the sincerity of Georges’s attempts to explain what we each meant to say, the obvious pleasure that Cath in particular had derived from Gou’s paintings, and the presence of the work itself, this sense of diminished self also became a humble gift offered between those standing together in this small busy space.

Inside Lu Xun Park through one of its minor gates, opposite an area of fenced off grass, is the Lu Xun memorial. On the second floor at the head of a marble staircase are hundreds of Lu Xun’s translated works encased in Perspex, in rows eight and nine high. The slim pastel coloured volumes published by the Foreign Language Press that I brought in the early 1980’s from the East Wind Bookshop in Hardware Lane Melbourne were displayed on the left hand wall. What I enjoyed about these editions, and still do, was that on the inside, after the English title page, there was a reproduction of the original Chinese publication’s front cover, usually a wood cut or engraving, a form of printing that Lux Xun had loved and encouraged. The original cover of Wild Grass is a vertical landscape printed in grey, with just a few darker green lines highlighting the foreground hills, darker than that of the translation’s cover with its title in black. Outside this three story memorial people walk, sing to the accompaniment of classical instruments, follow the song sheets of revolutionary songs, dance the fox trot and the tango, dance in traditional costume, play badminton (on and off the courts), draw portraits, play cards, sit and talk, and paint in water on the paths. At the main entrance on Sichuan Beilu a woman carrying large multi-coloured balloons, some in the shape of Hello Kitty, or others printed with the face of Snow White, hands two smaller transparent balloons to a man who had been pushing his daughter in a pram, while a small boy smiling, looks up at his bright yellow fish floating at the end of a red ribbon. The park with Lu Xun’s name and its people are the author’s words translated once again into daily life; while inside, the walled memorial encourages reverence and silence. Communal activity and the possibility of singular contemplation in the one location. This is how I translate the day.

As if being born Jewish in a working class Irish/Italian New York City neighborhood wasn't enough, I had to go and marry a girl from Shanghai. Girls from China are not the same as Chinese girls from America. Chinese girls from America are...well, American. Girls from China are not. On the surface, many people might consider New York and Shanghai a good match, and in many ways it is. The cities have many things in common: fashion sense; shopping; money; vibrant personalities; climate; cabs and their drivers; even a subway. Typical New York types are found in Shanghai and typical Shanghai types are found in New York. I've been to Shanghai several times and I love it. Right now it is arguably the greatest city in the world. This says a lot coming from a New Yorker.

But she is Chinese. I am American. For all of the similarities of our hometowns, our differences dominate our relationship. Some of them are, indeed, cultural. My wife despises credit. It is not the credit card itself that is the problem. It is paying the finance fees or interest. She maintains a zero balance on our credit cards. How many American women do you know who do that? Since we have been married, (and it's been nine years), I have not paid a cent in interest or finance fees to a credit card company. In general, we try to save money up for our purchases so we can buy things outright. We recently bought new furniture for nearly every room in our house, and made sure we paid it all off as we bought it. No interest paid. My wife drinks tea. She also drinks coffee and likes Continental breakfasts (Shanghai has been influenced by Westerners since its founding). But tea is her drink of choice, without tea bags. Tea leaves are just dropped into a cup, hot water is added, and she can drink from one cup for hours. Then there is, of course, the Chinese radio station that plays in the kitchen each night as she prepares dinner.

The real issues for us, and, I believe, for most couples have nothing to do with our cultures. They have to do with our personalities. But I will leave those aside and discuss the cultural faux pas that I have blundered into as an American marrying a Chinese.

When we were dating, she whined about a lot of things. This angered me. I told her to stop whining because it disgusted me. It turns out that whining is a way that many Chinese women flirt. They won't whine to just anyone. They will only show their weakness to men to whom they are attracted, thereby eliciting a "manly" caretaking response. Realmen taqke care of helpless women. My girl was showing me she liked me and I told her to stop because it disgusted me. Ooops. (She still does this, in different ways.)

There was, of course, the time I went to school to study Chinese, and spent a semester learning basic Mandarin. I thought I was doing pretty well. When her mother arrived to stay with us (for six months), I figured I could become pretty well versed inthe language. I was wrong. They spoke...Shanghainese (the dialect of Shanghai). This was something for which I was not prepared. Each area of China has its own dialect that most people speak as well as Mandarin, which is the official language. (Unless your girl is from Beijing, where Mandarin is the dialect). Shainghainese, Suzhounese, Guangdou, etc., all have their native dialect which is NOT Mandarin. So, while they can speak in Mandarin, it is not the language used in most households in China. Cantonese, for example, is spoken by a huge portion of the population including southern China and Hong Kong. This is not like a New York accent or a southern drawl. It is more like comparing British upper crust English to street Welsh or Ibonics. The dialects are indecipherable. Should I have expected my wife and mother-in-law to speak Mandarin in my home? Why? For my wife's entire life she spoke Shanghainese with her mother. It is natural for them. Unfortunately, one simply cannot find Shanghainese lessons in America. This, for obvious reasons discouraged me. I halted my study of the language indefinitely. I will pick it up again now that my children are growing, since they must be fluent in both English and Mandarin (at least). So, if you're studying Mandarin, do not be surprised if you cannot understand your in-laws conversations.

The language issue paled besides the social customs I learned. My mother-in-law introduced herself to me as "Judy". Naturally, I called her Judy. No. Wrong. Sleep on the couch wrong. I should call her "Ma" (which I do, now). It is an unbearable insult for me to refer to her by her name because she is a generation removed from me, and therefore is deserving of my respect. I should call older woman "Auntie", and older men "Uncle". Even my wife's older brother, who is younger than me, is referred to as "Big Brother" because he is her big brother. First names are not used, and using them is insulting to her family. Now I know. But just because I can adapt a more formal attitude with her family does not mean it is easy for her to adopt a less formal attitude with mine. My mother was not comfortable being called "Mom". She did not think it was appropriate for someone who did not issue from her womb to do so. She insisted on being called by her name. My wife acquiesced. But this forced her into feeling that she is insulting my mother whenever she talks with her. These feelings have contributed to my wife's loss of respect for my mother. After all, can you maintain respect for someone you insult whenever you talk with them? My mother, as I did, rejected my wife's gesture of affection in favor of something more "American". it doesn't matter that my wife is now an American citizen. Her soul is Chinese, and the social mores with which she grew up are ingrained. We have a lot of work to do to overcome the fall out of this cultural incompatibility. So guys, if you are going to marry a girl from China, prepare your parents to be called "Mom" and "Dad" if you want to avoid problems.

Now there are drastic differences between how families treat one another in different parts of China. Beijingese women will cook for you (many of them), and they are fine conversationalists, highly intelligent, and artistic. (This is the stereotype). Shanghai women, (in general), don't cook. When you think of Shanghai girls, think Sex & the City. Husbands and wives from some parts of Northern China do not even eat at the same table. Find out where your prospective mate is from and what are the area's customs. Visit first, if you can. We can Americanize them all we want, (my wife is very Americanized), but we must understand where these girls come from or we are lost.

Beware the stereotype of the demure, docile, pretty little wife who is basically a slave to the big, wonderful, generous white man. If this is how you think about your prospective wife, your marriage is doomed for failure. Remember, the same culture that has this stereotype has the stereotypical dragon lady. You know that you are not marrying a stereotype (I hope). Unfortunately, your family probably doesn't have the awareness to see this. If your wife-to-be is Chinese-American, then she is American, and few (if any) of thesenotes will apply. But if she is from China, your family will quite possibly slip her into the stereotype of their choice. I hope this is not true. I believed that my family would not do this. After all, we are New Yorkers, and have been exposed to different kinds of people for our entire lives. But they did.

The first time I went to China, my father was terrified that I would say the wrong thing and be arrested by the Communists and thrown into a re-education camp, or a Chinese prison for my radical free-speech tendencies. I promised him I would not instigate picket lines in Tianemen Square. Another relative asked my wife if she had a bath tub when she grew up. (He either did not understand that Shanghai is a major city, or he thought that Communism might have kept her from "owning" a bathtub. While it is true they shared a bathroom with other families, my wife was, nevertheless, offended by the question. It showed the general ignorance we Americans have of modern China as well as a lack of tact for asking someting so personal). A third relative actually said to me that my wife looked just like a "doll". I cannot tell you how many times I have heard: "I think Chinese women are beautiful", or "My sister's cousin's brother married a Chinese girl. Maybe we can get them together." This is just like "Some of my best friends are black." Be prepared. You will hear these things.

Other major Chinese/American differences:

1. Although Christianity is growing in China, the large majority of Chinese people do not know who Jesus Christ was. We were there for Christmas (my wife was a Protestant), and a friend gave her an apple because they believed that Christmas was about apples.

2. Chanukah? Forget about it.

3. To be considered 'manly' by Chinese male relatives you will have to eat things that disgust you and you may have to drink grain alcohol that has had a snake or bear's claw soaking in it.

4. Smoking is the norm in China. If your girl doesn't smoke, you're lucky. You can probably count on the fact that her father and brothers do. When you visit, you will too (or don't be surprised if they are insulted by your refusal).

5. A Chinese wedding is a whole different animal. Have one.

So, if you really want to marry a Chinese girl, more power to you. Try to remember that whining is flirting, studying Mandarin will not enable you to understand her family's conversations (unless they're from Beijing), and that you'll learn things about your family that may disappoint you. Just remember, they Chinese have seen all the American movies, and our families mostly just know about Jackie Chan. Be patient, with everybody. And good luck.

Mark's Website

Not that I was worried. My hotels on a bed and breakfast basis had been paid for, so starvation was not a possibility, but I hoped to save a bit of money to do the funicular in Hong Kong and the hydrofoil to Macau.

Thus at Shanghai railway station, on February 18th 1986, I opted to travel fourth class to Guangzhou. The train journey would take approximately thirty hours and, if it arrived on time, would allow me ninety minutes to make the last train of the evening to Hong Kong.

Fourth class.

First and second class were berths in a two or four berth compartment. Third class was a soft seat.
Fourth class was a hard seat.

Curiously, the prospect of sitting upon a hard wooden bench for thirty hours didn’t induce in me the horror that my friends expressed when I related the journey subsequently. If the ordinary Chinese could handle it, I thought, so could I.

Besides, it was a darned sight more luxurious than fifth class!

Being obviously non-Oriental and therefore a definite candidate to get on the wrong train, I was shown to my “hard bench” by a kindly man in a black uniform, who saluted me with a cheery grin and took his leave.
I squeezed my holdall into the overhead rack and sat down, to be met by a sea of faces. There must have been around fifty fellow passengers in the compartment and it seemed they had all turned around to stare at this dumb Westerner who had chosen to travel fourth class.

Someone said something and everybody laughed. I bit my lip as though trying to suppress a smile. A voice from the back started singing, which evinced more laughter. In reply, I howled like a wolf and the place broke up.

A couple of the young Chinese men (they seemed mostly to be young and male) had a smattering of English, which was more than I had of Chinese. With the help of my pocket atlas and a good deal of sign language and bad miming, I managed to relate the information that I was from Ireland, I worked in a shop and I was on my holidays, having spent the past three weeks travelling overland from Dublin.
It seemed everybody had a question. Did I have a girlfriend? Was I rich? Ireland was the same as England, no? Did I play football?

I had become used to the stares in Beijing but, under this constant bombardment, I decided to turn the tables and fired out a few questions of my own. Did someone come around with food? Was the train normally on time? Where was the toilet? It has to be said the miming of the latter question caused a great deal of hilarity in the compartment.

When I returned, I found my place on the bench had been taken by a moustachioed young man, who was now ostensibly asleep. I hesitated, wondering on the proper course of action. Thankfully, my next door neighbour – who seemed to have attracted some reflected glory in having the Irishman beside him – came to my rescue, shaking the usurper roughly on the shoulder. He blinked, looked up and meekly returned to his position in the aisle.

This was apparently the norm. The fifth class passengers were simply availing of the opportunity to take the weight off their feet for a minute or two. There was no sense of trying to muscle onto the hard seat, though I wondered, somewhat guiltily, if they resented me for taking up a precious eighteen inches of bench.

Every hour or so, a little stout lady with a huge urn on wheels came around and ladled out tea into eagerly proffered jugs and jam jars. I had not come across this in my travels and consequently had no receptacle. I was obviously the only one not drinking for, on her third visit, a young man opposite offered me a spare jam jar, which I accepted with many thanks.

I had been puzzling about the provision of food on a thirty hour train journey. As far as I could see, there was no access for us fourth and fifth class passengers to the dining car, but surely we still had to eat? Was I supposed to have brought some food with me?

The conundrum was solved at about the fifth stop down the line. As we pulled into the station, I could see a horde of people lined up along the track. Surely they weren’t all getting on, I thought? The compartment was heaving as it was and thick with cigarette smoke.

But no. As the train pulled to a stop, the passengers in the compartment all made a dive for the narrow slit windows, arms outstretched, shaking money at the people outside. In return, they were given a white, plastic mould, which they carried greedily back to their positions. The smell of the hot food was only delicious and when the scrum had died down and everyone had been “served” I realised again, I was probably the only one not eating!

As the train pulled out, there was a corresponding movement to the windows on the opposite side of the compartment and empty plastic white moulds were jettisoned on the side of the track. Looking back as we curved around, it seemed there was one long white mountain where a few minutes earlier there had been just gravel.

More sign language and the next time I was ready, clambering up to the window with the rest of them, a few yen waving furiously. I felt guilty about littering the station with my refuse but did it nonetheless, figuring that the food providers probably recycled the containers when we had gone.

Evening came and the train rattled through the countryside. The bench opposite me all decided to go to sleep at the same time, each man laying his head on the shoulder of the man next to him, with the man on the end being squashed against the window. Soon, I felt the weight of a head on my left shoulder. Here goes I thought, cocking my head to the right so it landed on the shoulder of the man on the other side.

And thus we slept throughout the night. Not very well, it must be said, for the shoulder pad hadn’t made it to southern China by the mid-eighties. Also when somebody needed the toilet, the chain was broken, although a fifth class passenger usually occupied the gap as soon as it became vacant.

Morning came and, unwashed and grimy as I was, I felt curiously alive. I was no longer the centre of attention but felt very much a part of this whole marathon train experience. I conversed in sign language with my near neighbours. I got up to stretch my legs for an hour. I was even starting to get the hang of chopsticks.

We stopped travelling west and began the final six hour southerly stretch into Guangzhou. It hadn’t felt like a whole 24 hours since we had puffed our way out of Shanghai and that I put down to the bonhomie and good nature of my travelling companions, who were always ready to smile and joke, despite the gruelling nature of the journey.

And then, when I estimated we could not be more than an hour from our destination, the train slowly crawled to a complete halt. Puzzled faces squinted out the windows, for we were in the middle of the countryside. A man in a black uniform went running up along the side of the train, ignoring the chorus of questions from the windows.

We sat there for two hours. By the time we started up again, I knew the connection to Hong Kong had left and I would have to find overnight accommodation in Guangzhou.

I took a few photos of my travelling companions, quite needlessly as it happened, as in the intervening years, I have never forgotten that journey. They clapped me on the shoulder as we left the train and chattered to me in Chinese, as if I ought to be fluent in the language after sharing a carriage for 32 hours. I thanked them all and shook their hands, knowing it was the end of a journey I would never forget.
My accommodation problems were very easily solved outside the large and impressive railway station in Guangzhou. Leaning into a taxi, I asked the driver if he could take me to a cheap hotel. “Yes, I know cheap hotel,” he smiled.

I hopped in the back and he executed a perfect 180° turn, depositing me outside the hotel on the other side of the street.

And the two of us roared with laughter.

There is a magic door; to enter requires a sheaf of papers, stamped, signed, stamped again. Followed by a long walk across a high bridge, over a deep ravine, into a great hall where thousands of people stand in snaking lines, sweating in the subtropical heat.

Sitting in glass cubicles, high chair bound, peaked capped officials watch with suspicious eyes the supplicants begging admission. As you inch closer you will see the occasional unlucky soul, who after being plucked from the line, is unlikely to return.

It sounds like a passage into darkness from the bright lights and exuberance of Hong Kong but crossing the boarder into mainland China is well worth the effort.

The area of China that radiates out from Shenzen, the city across the boarder, is divided into bands like an onions skin, and has different levels of economic freedom. Close to the monetary engine of HK it is fully geared to meet the expectations of western business; passing through each internal boarder post, paper work allowing, however the view of the buildings gets less impressive, the roads more challenging.

I was sitting in the back of a limo, thanks to my job at the time as a corporate buyer, watching the world go by when I saw a sedan turn off the beautifully laid main road. Its front end disappeared down a pot hole so large that the back end shot up three feet in the air. We glided on, and nothing would convince my, none English speaking, driver to stop and render assistance. I suspect he had been told to keep the idiotic Englishman out of trouble.

To my mind it is the dichotomies of China that make it such a truly fascinating place. Skyscrapers climbing majestically through the smog, green glass and chrome steel sit next to shacks woven from scraps of rubbish, perching on the edge of paddy fields.

Fabulously wealthy business men step carefully past beggars. Polished pavements drop precariously to dirt tracks at the end of a block. And most starkly of all the people; there is a saying that there is no such thing as small trouble in China. Get involved with the police or a local official and things can get complicated and expensive fast. On the other hand the ordinary, day to day, people are the warmest, kindest men and women that I have ever met anywhere in the world.

These people drive the dynamic growth of the world’s next super power. Turn your back, stay away for a few days, and when you return there will be six new buildings where a wasteland stood before.

Once I took out a photograph of my own children while at a business meeting and the next morning at breakfast the lobby was full of my Chinese colleagues and their own, much loved, children. Perhaps the sudden appearance was a little staged; trying to convince me that they were a Family organisation, but the love and laughter of both the parents and their kids was very genuine.

The food is remarkable, nothing prepares you for it. You may think that you know Chinese food, the western version that is, but you do not. If it walks, crawls, flies or swims, we will eat it, boasted a friend of mine as we sat down to eat. Starter; A clear broth with small white nuggets of meat that turned out to be snake, in which floated a three inch scorpion complete with stinger and claws. When asked how one went about eating it the advice was simple; “Watch out for the stinger it can scratch your throat.”

My guide promised to take me somewhere special to eat; having eaten in some wonderful, bizarre and down right odd places I was suitably intrigued. As the car pulled into the brand new shopping precinct I spotted our destination. Kentucky Fried Chicken, all I can tell you is that in China they must grow really small chickens judging by the legs.

I once visited a factory where a well known toy company had some of its products manufactured. I guess what you need to understand is how the corporate mentality of the USA meets the cost consciousness (I could use a stronger word) of the Far East.

The corporate quality handbook must have said something like, ‘bathroom must be provided for the shop floor employees. This bathroom must have the following in working order, an electric hand dryer, soap dispenser, mirror, tiled walls and floor.’ Truth to tell it had every single item on the list. Trouble was no one had insisted on an actual toilet instead of a hole in the ground and a roof would have been nice addition.

I checked out the sleeping accommodation that the factory provided for its workers. I was shocked, suddenly I wondered if it was morally right to trade with companies that set up such basic flats. I asked Sam my guide and friend why the workers stayed. What he said explained a lot. He said that twenty years ago the people were very poor, now each year things get better; these workers had come from villages where they had no running water or electricity. Here they have a steady living wage and heat, light and the promise of a new future.

I still believe that we in the West have a responsibility to insist that our suppliers behave ethically in doing so we help people to grow out of the wreckage of the past.

As you drive through the streets of the old town you will pass hundreds upon hundreds of tiny shops, little more than garages in which they have stashed saleable items. But I guarantee you this, in every street, under a bare light bulb illegally wired into the overhead mains, will be a snooker or pool table. Around it will be a dozen youths smoking, laughing and living their lives. It is easy to see all of China as a totalitarian state, grey and controlled if you only watch the media.

My advice, visit China, behind the flags and walls, the land and the people are warm, real and welcoming, if perhaps a little strange.