Bargain-hunters, beware!

Today you get two new Chinese words! The first is min’gan, which means “sensitive.” This is an important word in China, especially when you are doing research in political science, as there are many min’gan subjects (you can probably guess what some of these are—for instance, Richard Gere). On the other hand, things that might be min’gan in the United States are not at all so here. Random strangers ask you things like “How old are you? Are you married? (If not, why not?) How many children do you have? (If none, why not?) How much money do you make?”

One of the disadvantages of this being a training as well as a travel blog is that occasionally I may need to, in the interests of complete honesty and disclosure, write about some min’gan things—in other words, some of the unpleasant physical aspects of long-distance running, or just running in general. Blisters, chafing in odd spots, etc. are probably the inevitable outcomes of such training. Today was my first run since having that cold, just 5k on the treadmill in the King Gym, but, for today’s other Chinese lesson, let me just say “Tian a!” That means, “Oh, my God,” or, literally, “Sky (heaven) ah!” My run was actually quite good—I felt surprisingly strong and it wasn’t a strain at all to run the 5k in about 27 minutes (fairly fast, for me). But then I got off the treadmill and I felt like my shorts were burning my legs!

Let me explain the origins of these particular shorts. They are from the Yashow Market, one of a few markets in Beijing specializing in export clothing, both genuine and knock-off, and crawling with foreigners. When I joined the King Gym I went there in search of indoor running clothes (or perhaps I just wanted an excuse to shop). So my “Nike” shorts (I think they are genuine, actually, and they cost all of $8) seemed to be fine until I got off the treadmill when they caused my legs to have this burning sensation. So now I wonder, is the clothing at the Yashow Market some sort of military project to test new weapons on unsuspecting laowais in search of bargains?

OK, that is about as “confessional” as these “pages” will hopefully get.

P.S. The burning went away rather fast--I guess that weapon still needs some work.

Logic

I’ve not actually run in five days, as I’ve had a terrible cold. Most of my weekend was spent wondering if I should visit a doctor, and not being very enthused about the options there—either overpriced laowai medical clinic or Chinese hospital. However, I’ve spent much time considering that this could really be a positive thing for marathon training. After all, the air here is so polluted that perhaps running is detrimental to my practically pristine lungs. (Herein comes the “logic” of our title—luoji in Chinese). Perhaps my marathon experience would be best served by as little exposure to that polluted air as possible. However, I’d guess that 10 out of 10 running experts would decree that some running needs to take place, at some point.

So how does one spend a weekend while sick in Beijing, not wanting to leave one’s fairly monastic cell of a room? (OK, so it has TV and internet, but it’s all in Chinese!) Why, watching pirated DVDs, of course! Why don’t we just call this “research on the state of intellectual property law in China in 2007”? According to one of the introductory sequences on one of the DVDs (I think it was “Pride & Prejudice” but they all start to blur together), “You wouldn’t steal a car, You wouldn’t steal a mobile phone…Buying pirated goods is stealing. Piracy. It’s a crime.” Not much irony here, really. Not that any of the DVDs I bought were pirated (The box to “Pride & Prejudice” has a cast list including Ben Affleck, Jennifer Garner, Colin Farrell, Jon Favreau, Ellen Pompeo, and Joe Pantoliano—it almost makes me want to figure out if any of these people have ever all been in one movie together, or if someone just made a random list of American movie stars--and I use that term loosely. And of course none of them are really in this film.)

To make up for the brevity of today's post, some photos of the "fan dance" to amuse readers.




Bottom photo, left to right: rural dairy mogul (are there any urban dairy moguls, anywhere?), Xie Lihua, laowai.

Palm trees

On Monday and Tuesday of last week I had my first trip to the countryside—to Qian’an in Hebei Province, about a two-hour trip by car from Beijing. Qian’an is apparently a “rich” place in the countryside—it provides much of the iron for Beijing, and has so historically. That is, it has provided useful iron to Beijing, as opposed to the backyard steel furnace variety that was in vogue during the Great Leap Forward (the late 1950s version of tragic Chinese history). I went with my NGO friend, Xie Lihua, and two journalists from her magazine Rural Women. We visited two enterprises run by women and then had dinner in a peasant home. Then to add to the surrealism of the experience, we stayed in the Qian’an “city government” hotel, which would have been equivalent to at least a four-star hotel in Beijing or other large Chinese cities. Apparently Qian’an has used its iron wealth to build nice buildings that they can then host guests in, such as NGO visitors from Beijing, or, even better, officials from Beijing who come to see how hunky-dory things are in Qian’an. My hotel room even had a bathtub, which was a big thrill, along with a scale, which, to my great relief, was not working properly and kept telling me that I weigh 20 kilograms (like 45 pounds—Chinese food can be quite healthy, but not that much so).

It is not quite clear that this would really fool officials, given the general poverty of Qian’an county once you get out of the county town. (And just for some perspective—Qian’an, a “small” county town in China, has a population of over 100,000). At one enterprise we visited, a rural foodstuffs corporation, we asked the average salary received by the rural women working there, and learned that it is about 500 yuan per month. This is the same as I paid for my three-month membership at the King Gym—about $65. And these are “good” jobs, “opportunities” for these women.

No running for me. However, I did get some exercise participating in the “fan dance.” After dinner in the peasant home, we went back by the village where the head also runs a dairy enterprise. She used some of her earnings to renovate the little village square, so that it now includes things like yellow and red neon-lit plastic palm trees (like I said, surreal). Every night, villagers gather and perform the “fan dance,” which involves traditional Chinese instruments and dancing with fans in lines. This can be viewed all over the place on evenings in China—Jim and I used to watch it in our old neighborhood when we lived here. Many participate, though it tends more to older women. In this village, the dairy-farm woman had purchased costumes and make-up for participants. Anyway, Xie Lihua and myself joined in for awhile, to the great amusement of the spectators. Seeing foreigners do such things is rather unprecedented. When I can, I’ll try to post a photo or two.

The following day, I also go to be a laowai (today’s Chinese Word of the Day)—at a forum for rural women village leaders, I got to sit in front with the other “experts” with a placard proclaiming my (Chinese) name. I did not say one word, but apparently my presence was seen as somehow of use to someone.

So, our word today is laowai, a word in Chinese that literally means “old outsider” but is usually just used to indicate that a foreigner is on the premises. It used to be that you would just get on a bus and you’d hear people muttering “laowai” (I always wanted to learn to say “No S---“ as a response). In Beijing you can buy t-shirts that say “Laowai laile (the laowai is coming)” on the front and “laowai zoule (the laowai is going)” on the back. Laowai zoule!

Authenticity

Today, our Chinese word is zhenzheng. It means, according to my dictionary, “genuine, true, real.” Of course, I’m having all sorts of zhenzheng experiences here, like eating zhenzheng Chinese food (no 100-item buffets in sight), riding zhenzheng buses (today, one was so crowded that I seriously wondered how long the oxygen supply would last), and even taking zhenzheng Chinese medicine for the cold I now seem to have (at first, I thought it was just the effects of the air pollution, but no, it’s really a cold). I’m a little worried because the pharmacist (or at least the lady in the white coat in the medicine place) told me to take a total of 12 pills for my first dose of the medication, which seems like a lot of pills. This is a time when linguistic understanding is very important, but the package also seems to agree with her.

However, these are not my only zhenzheng experiences. On Sunday, I had a zhenzheng yoga experience, which you think would be almost impossible in China. However, this one came complete with Real Yoga Teacher From India. I decided to try yoga here in Beijing and wanted to give the Ashtanga class at BeijingYoga a try. Well, let me just tip my metaphorical hat to any of you who seriously practice Ashtanga Yoga. I was still hurting four days after the class. I’d like to think that the class was just really hard due to its really zhenzheng nature, real Indian yogi teacher and all, but I’m not so sure. All I know was that I felt like a totally clueless, absolutely unfit blob. Actually, a blob would have had a better chance of getting into some of those postures. About every other new pose the zhenzheng yogi, whose name was actually Bharath, would offer me a new prop to help me. Here, try this strap! Here, put this towel under your butt—now put this towel under the other side!

I may go back to BeijingYoga again—this was the “Basic Ashtanga” class, and there is actually a “Beginner Ashtanga” class that I may have to venture into instead. However, next I’m off to Yoga Yard to try vinyasa yoga—probably less zhenzheng, since most of the teachers seem to be Chinese or American, but perhaps I’m also just not cut out for certain forms of zhenzheng-ness.

Dentist or margarita?

For Saturday I wanted to run 10 miles. However, I was mostly filled with dread about this prospect. It’s cold here, and I have not seen a single other soul out running. Not one. Not just when I’m myself running, but anytime. Well, that’s not strictly true. I’ve seen people running for buses, ones that are usually really crowded and hardly have room for any more people, but nonetheless, that is what people here run for.

So I decided to run on the treadmill in the King Gym. Mind you, for some people this is a perfectly reasonable proposition, but for me treadmills are usually associated with generally unpleasant things, like visits to the dentist or grading student essay exams. After my going away party, on a day when I wanted to do a long run, I went out and ran 8 miles on the Ernst Trail in the rain, four of them in the dark wearing Jim’s headlamp, rather than spend that time on the treadmill.

Everything is relative, however, and now the treadmill less resembled a trip to the dentist than something I really like, like a margarita or a new episode of “Grey’s Anatomy” (speaking of which, I saw a set of DVDs here claiming to be Season 3 of “Grey’s Anatomy”, which seems impossible since it is still being televised...). So I did my 10 miles on the treadmill, which was itself interesting. I started and set myself on a pace of just under 10 minutes and felt like I was going really slowly, and then I realized I was—the treadmill measures kilometers. So I spent much of my run doing calculations in my head, which I’m not especially good at. I knew I had to run something over 16 kilometers to make 10 miles so I just rounded it to 17 (apparently more like 10.5 miles). And the treadmill would only let me do a limited time period, so I had to keep resetting it and adding the distance I’d gone in my head. Still, overall a happy experience, and the treadmill will be a good option.

So today’s Chinese word is gongli—kilometer.

Perhaps the highlight of my workout: watching the 20ish Chinese man who ran on the treadmill beside me for awhile leaving the gym and immediately putting a cigarette in his mouth. Doesn’t he know he doesn’t need to do that here? Smoking is free—just breathe!

Written Saturday, 20th January, 9 p.m.

Foggy

The word for today’s Chinese lesson is wu. In Chinese, wu can mean all kinds of things, depending on the character it could mean “five” or “without.” Today, however, wu will mean “fog”—“foggy” is wumengmengde. In my context, I’m not referring to a weather condition, although mornings here can look foggy. I’m referring more to a metaphysical condition—as in, living here is like always being in a fog. Sometimes the fog is heavy, and it is practically dangerous to go out. Things or contexts are so unclear that you are a risk to yourself or others—for instance, there is always the fear of causing some sort of international incident. (OK, perhaps this is a bit of hyperbole.) On other days or in other situations, the weather can be almost clear, though I have to say a day of a perfect blue sky is practically non-existent. “Mostly sunny,” sure, but not totally clear.

Today’s theme is fog because apparently I was pretty foggy for a few days, and then on Friday things got clearer, or at least somewhat so. For the past five days I’ve been walking by this poster in the entryway of the building where I’m living, featuring a life-sized photo of a scantily-clad Caucasian woman holding a tape measure to her bustline. It really made no significant impact on me—I assumed it promised something relating to looking more white and having an altered bustline (whether it strives for more or less of this, I’m not sure). But then yesterday I looked more closely and saw that below our lifesized woman were much smaller photos of treadmills and weight machines (I had really hoped to include the photos here, but the internet connection just isn't allowing it).

The poster is an advertisement for a gym! In the basement of the building where I’m living! Apparently with treadmills! Here I was, in “old Beijing” mode, thinking that I just had to suffer and run amongst the endless concrete and bemused Beijingers, forgetting that China is hurtling into the 21st century by essentially skipping much of the 20th.

So, as it turns out, a 3-month membership to the “King Gym” costs the equivalent of $65. I don’t even have to walk outside to get to it.

More on the King Gym in my next episode…

Written Saturday, 20th January, 8 p.m.

Concrete, everywhere

Today's word is chengshihua. It means "urbanization," which China is experiencing in rather abrupt form. It also means that when Jim and I lived here 10 years ago, we were able to run from our (admittedly “suburban”) apartment and be in rice fields within minutes. It now means that our former residence has been thoroughly overtaken by the sprawling city. Ten years ago: 2 ring roads around the city (named, mysteriously, the Second and Third Ring Roads—I have no idea where the First one went). Now: 3 more Ring Roads (for those of you keeping count, that means we are up to the Sixth Ring Road).

Up to today the weather here has actually been quite great—clear and relatively warm. Today however it is hazy and/or cloudy--it’s hard to tell whether the haze is blocking out a blue sky or clouds—and colder. Between that and my ongoing shicha (see preceding Chinese Lesson) I was not wanting to run. However, I decided that I’d better do so after having at least one pastry too many at Bread Talk, Jim’s and my favorite bakery in China. That reminds me of the recent article in The Atlantic Monthly about China, which concluded with two (I think) “great mysteries about China.” You’d think they’d be something like “Does China seek great power hegemony or is it really just wanting a ‘peaceful rise’ as its own leaders claim?” or “What is China’s real secret to all that economic growth?” or, at least, “Does American food in China make you hungry an hour later the way that Chinese food in America does?” But no. The first mystery is how all the luxury stores in the many shopping malls manage to stay open when they never seem to have any customers. And the second is how there can be bakeries offering quite good croissants and other baked goods on every street corner in Chinese cities. This is actually true.

I decided that today I would go run in the Purple Bamboo Park, a city park about a half-mile away from where I’m staying. I figured I could do at least one lap of the park, which today I learned is exactly 1.12 miles according to my Nike speed-distance monitor thing, better known to Jim and I as the TOMS (the Thing On My Shoe). I was about halfway to the park (exactly 0.67 miles each way, says the TOMS) when I realized that I’d forgotten to bring money to buy the entrance ticket to the park. I didn’t feel like going back and climbing up to my 9th floor room to get my equivalent of a quarter, and I decided to throw myself on the mercy of the ticket taker by playing the ignorant foreigner (not too hard to do…). That was going to be tricky, since the ticket takers are inevitably taciturn middle-aged women wearing sleeve protectors. What are those for, anyway? They are ubiquitous here--bank tellers, ticket takers, bus drivers and ticket collectors, etc., all wear them. However, the fates were smiling upon me and there was no ticket taker, taciturn or not. Instead there was a sign reading “The park is free.” Score! So I entered and it was actually a lovely experience. The lake dominating the park is frozen and there were tons of people enjoying the ice using every potentially imaginable conveyance—ice skates but also sleds and other sleds that you sit on and push with poles and even contraptions that you pedal. Chinese parks are usually crowded, and today the Purple Bamboo Park was somewhat so (many were no doubt lured by the attractions of ticket-free admission, either that or not having to face Sleeve Protector Ticket Collector), but it was still a good run.

Better than yesterday’s, my first in China, where I decided to essentially run around the block—really two large city blocks that totaled a four-mile loop. The run was fine, but between dodging pedestrians and waiting for traffic it was not exactly a smooth experience. I do however enjoy the occasional drop-mouth stare I get from people, which used to be common just by walking down the street as a foreigner, but now you have to do something really crazy, like go out for a run.

It is currently 4:30 p.m. on Friday the 19th in Beijing—3:30 a.m. Eastern Standard Time. I’ll get this posted as soon as I can—Internet connections are very slow here, which I’ve realized is a consequence of the earthquake off Taiwan last month that apparently damaged something like 6 of the 7 undersea cables that carry trans-Pacific communications. Due to this, I have set up a Chinese email address: swesoky@sina.com. I hope also to upload photos, but that may have to wait for a better internet connection.

Over the weekend I hope to get out for a 10-miler, which may consist of 9 laps of, yes, the Purple Bamboo Park.

Dajia Hao! (Hi Everyone!)

Welcome to my Beijing blog! Apparently there is already someone here blogging using the name “sharoninchina” so “runningwhilesmokingcoal” is my chosen name. To avoid any James Frey-like episodes, I’ll immediately admit that my blog title is inspired, to put it mildly, by the section in the “Insiders Guide to Beijing” listing some running routes in the city’s downtown, which begins with “I know what you’re thinking. ‘Why not just run on the treadmill while smoking a brick of coal?’ It’s true that the city’s typical air pollution levels make jogging in Beijing akin to suicide in spandex, but do you know where to go when the sky turns blue?” Of course, similar thoughts have partially inspired this blog—how exactly does one train for a marathon in a place where mere breathing to exist can be rather perilous?

One thing I’ve thought about doing is providing a little Chinese lesson in each entry, via a “word of the day.” Today’s word is shicha, which, using the proper characters, means “time difference.” (Cha can also mean “to fall short” or “not up to standard; poor” according to my dictionary.) The Chinese also refer to jet lag as shicha. Shicha is why I have not yet actually run in Beijing since my arrival. Shicha is why I’ve been awake half the night since arrival.

Today, however, I did walk from where I’m staying to the travel agency to register for the marathon. It somehow seemed inappropriate to take a taxi for this sort of task. I will confess to also being aware that the travel agency was relatively close to my abode, “close” in Beijing being something like a 4 mile walk. Beijing is a very sprawling city—what looks quite close on the map can in fact be 4 miles away. There ensued much fun, including the discovery that the girl at the travel agency attended China Women’s University, where I am based doing my research. She actually has a degree in social work—I didn’t ask her if she is in fact not really working as a travel agent at all, but instead doing some sort of surreptitious, therapeutic, participant observer fieldwork registering people for a marathon involving over 7000 steps and also taking case notes on them (she did have to step into a back room several times during the process, though I did not see anything that could have been a one-way mirror). Then again, perhaps working in a travel agency was just a logical, post-social work degree career choice for her. I won’t even begin to describe my quest for the equivalent in Chinese cash of several hundred dollars for the race fee—you’d think something like a travel agency would take credit cards, even here, but no, that would make things far too simple.

“Running while smoking coal” is, alas, a potentially accurate description of how training here will be, once I actually do some. When the plane landed in the city on Monday evening, I swear that my eyes stung when ambient air was allowed in—this was perhaps a psychosomatic reaction to arrival here, but I think it was just instant awareness of the pollution.

I will post as much as I can here—the Internet connection is rather slow, something I could complain about at length, but as I’m here ostensibly to do research on disadvantaged rural women, I’ll refrain.