sofasurfers

Words you never thought I’d say (though probably never cared enough to
wonder): “May I come to church with you?”
This was no religious quest, but cultural - how is it to be a Chinese
Christian, I’d pondered - since my host is one. Hard…
“The head of our family church doesn’t think it would be a good idea
for you to come: the government is very touchy about Christianity.” Oh
that’s a shame. “But we are meeting for lunch afterwards - you are
welcome.”
And so each one introduced themselves to me: “My name’s… I’m a
Christian”… and together explained how the family church works. They
meet at one of the “brothers’ and sisters’” houses, where they take
turns to lead the teachings - there’s no priest, there’s no church,
just good faith and the bible. “You have to register with the
government at official churches,” one says. “I read on the internet
there are three times as many family church-goers as official
church-goers,” says my host. “NO PHOTOS!” says this week’s hostess.
“It is a real burden to protect the brothers and sisters,” says
another, in defence.

And yet, all around the dark heart of capitalism, Christmas carols are
being played full blast, there are Christmas trees at every turn, glad
tidings festooned around all shops, and all the other commercial
urgings of Christmas. In fact, there’s such a disconnect with
Christianity and Christmas that when I asked my host how he would be
celebrating, he just said, “Oh we don’t celebrate Christmas - we are a
typical Chinese family…”

The Chinese couchsurfing scene in Shanghai is no different to the rest
of the country in that the majority tribe is Western TEFL teachers. I
have half resigned myself to the cause to stay with one such Italian
boasting 150 references (also a typical characteristic: guests really
have to impress these seen-it-all hosts). And half playing the wild
card, staying with a Chinese couple in the missionary position: “Thank
God we have found Jesus,” reads their profile. And their most recent
missive to me: “Let us show you the way.” Wild.

Knowledge of a couchsurfing school in the neighbouring town eventually
lured me like a vampire to blood. (Sadly, a couchsurfing school is not
where you get to learn couchsurfing etiquette for once and for all,
but instead, here in Yangshuo, in Guangxi province, a private English
school where couchsurfers are welcome to stay for even months at a
time, with free lunch and dinner, in exchange for making weekly
speeches to the students and participating in daily English Corners,
where all gather to chat in English.) And my, do the couchsurfers get
a good deal: we are put up in the students’ ‘dormitory’ (read: 3-star
hotel-esque establishment complete with English expressions at every
single step
where I shared a twin bedroom with an ensuite, large TV and DVD
player, and in-room hot-water dispenser – tea on tap!).
Because I’d left it so late (like, “Hello, is it OK if I come this
afternoon?”), and wasn’t going to be there for a single English
corner, I urgently needed to attend to my side of the bargain.
“Perhaps,” I offered in pathetic, unblinking earnest, “I can help out
in the school kitchen? [Can you imagine?! I was seriously up for
this.] Perhaps I can play badminton with the students? [Ditto.]
Perhaps I can help in the office?”
“Well, you could call our previous students to see if they would like
to come back to study,” says Charles, the school’s manager. “Try and
get into a conversation with them. Ask them how about the weather, ask
them how about their job.” Great, I said, in genuine delight; how
hilarious, I said in silent aside.
So I was set up with a spreadsheet of names and numbers and a script
(”Hello, this is [your name] from Zhuoyue [jo-yoo-eh] English
School… Welcome back to Zhuoyue when you have free time.”
Unexpectedly, it was a most rejuvenating experience – suddenly, I felt
like I was 22 again: like I’d just graduated, and was dithering about
in dead-end temping work… Because, yes, of course, it’s the task
that is so awful they have to get a temp in to do it. Most of the
numbers didn’t work. Of the 11 numbers I called, I got through to just
one boy, “John”.
Hello, this is Fleur from Jo-yoo-eh English College! I was just
wondering how your English was coming along since you left the
college.
“Uh? Uh?”
[Repeat lines one and two.]
“Ha ha – I sorry. Very difficult. No understand.”
Ah! Hello. This. Is. Fleur. From. Jo-yoo-eh. English. College! How. Are. You?
“I working.”
Oh. Sorry. If. You. Are. Busy. There. Is. A. Forum. On. Jo Yoo-eh’s.
Website. Where. You. Can. Practise. Your. English. Shall. I. Spell.
It?
“J-O-H-N”
Lovely, thank you very much, John. Welcome back to Jo Yoo-eh when you
have free time!
Forcing a conversation with John just felt like a small torture for
him, so I leave it at that. I go to sing a song – or go to the loo in
Plain English – where I find three toilets, one of which is
Western-style. In the two Chinese-style ones (ie, hole in the ground),
there are English expressions pinned to the door: “More haste, less
speed”, “Great hope makes great man”.
On my return, I spot a British boy. Hello, I say, with the kind of
entitlement you feel when you chance upon a fellow minority. “Oh
you’ve been doing that ring-round,” he says. “I had to do that last
year. It’s a complete waste of time – complete waste of time.”
So I abort task and set about some real temping work (aka discreetly
doing my own thing). At which point, natch, Charles asks me how I’m
getting along with the list. Well, I say, with gusto and job pride…
Both quickly fall away as I run down the list of names and expose my
uselessness, until I’m left standing there, stark nakedly useless. Ah
– it made me feel so naughty and young again.
Footnote: I must add that my unrewarding experience was only a
self-inflicted punishment for deciding too late and leaving too early,
and not having the time to involve myself in the cultural exchange of
their English Corner. It’s clear that couchsurfers have a really
fulfilling time here, and many do stay for months, years even. My
lesson learnt at the Zhuoyue English School was Just Deserts. It’s
probably written somewhere on the door of one of their Chinese-style
toilets.

Since conversation was severely limited, I invited Axiang to play ping
pong with me. “Uh?” Ping pong! You know, ping pong! Now I understood
that ping pong is so called because it’s onomatopoeic so I made a smal
song and a dance, giving it all the “piiing!” and the “ponggg!”, to no
avail. So I take to my pencil and paper and draw it: “Aaah! Ping pan
cho!”
I also learnt a few more things about the sport. Firstly, how to spot
a ping pong table: no green and white paint job and net fancy
business here – no, no: look for the cement-clad breeze blocks and the
plank of wood, like this one in the local school where we played.

Secondly, the bat is held almost like a pen, thumb and forefinger on
the front (as you’ll see ably demonstrated here)… Obviously, things
got a lot worse before they got better on my side of the ‘net’. And
thirdly, when playing against a 13-year-old boy, it is advisable to
stand a good four feet back from the end of the table. If only someone
had been able to advise me of this.

Post Script

Other sports in China: squash is called “wall ball”, badminton is called “feather ball”

Somewhat against the traffic, as more and more of China’s population
takes a one-way ticket into its cities and out of rural life, I headed
towards the village of Xing Ping in Guangxi province – yes! A village!
I’d found a couchsurfer in a village… Or had I? Correct: exactly as
feared when going to a place where there’s only one option, my one
option went and ran out on me. Just as I was on the bus there as well:
after I’d sent a couple of unrequited texts, I do indeed hear back
from my host that that he’s left town. Grrrowl. “Go to the youth
hostel and find Axiang – she will look after you”. Harrumph.
Actually, despite my grumpy cynicism setting in as I was led up the
(garden) path into the youth hostel, I was not expected to pay to
sleep in a dormitory with hairy and smelly travellers (and nor they
with me…). Axiang, the 21-year-old niece of my absent host’s wife,
took me off to her place where I even had my own bedroom.
Communication wasn’t easy (our Chinese whispers conversation led me to
expect to be staying with her parents and brother in a farm; I arrived
to find it was just me and her above a grain store), but she gave me
her house keys and her heart, and a window to life in her village.

And so I got to witness buffalo (oh maybe they are water buffalo, but
hey, the shepherd is herding in his pants – that’s got to be village).

I saw sausages made like they used to – out of real intestines (and
please note the orange trees in the background; also observed: banana
trees, chilli bushes and strawberries – and those are just the ones
that I understood).
 I saw Mao posters in pride of place by the TV (the real rural God) in
crumbly yellow brick houses with wide-open doors, holey ceilings and
woodsmoke fires… I saw a crowd which had gathered to spectate a
lorry unloading an oildrum (clearly a rare excitement). I saw abacuses
in shops, and small collections of orange pith (peel removed) drying
in the sun – some kind of cottage industry as they can sell on the
pith though I haven’t yet uncovered the point. I saw fresh dinner on
its way to the table – these little chucks were still alive.
 And what about the yuf, when they can’t get their hands on any spray
paint and a good wedge of urban wall? Bamboo etchings. Let’s hope it
says something fully filthy.
 I even went for a walk up those strange limestone camel humps where my
sole companion was this little calf (no people for two hours! Remember
this is China). I heard nothing but birds singing, cow bells dingling,
and sometimes just nothing at all. Total luxury.


And.. I saw this furry fellow in my bedroom – please do observe that
the water bottle you see for the purpose of perspective is a full
1.5litres, not an incy wincy 300ml one. In fact, so impossibly large
(and still) was my bedfellow that at first I thought it was a plastic
joke. But no – by the time I’d procured a giant jar large enough to
catch him in, he’d moved…into the shadows and into my nightmares.

Resist the panda merchandise, I self-chided. Resist!
 Oh, argh, ohhh, nooo! Too late. A panda pen jumps into my hand and out
of the shop. Needless to say,  the ink ran out even faster… But my
furry friend did make me pretty popular on the choo choo train.

 (Oh no! Resist the Chinese camera salute – resist! Oh no!)

And kept me company on a ride down the Lijiang River past these
lovely, leafy, limestone camel humps, on the way to my next stop, Xing
Ping…

“I’m sorry – I already have a couchsurfer staying with me.” My Serbian
host is on the phone; we’re out in a bar. “There’s no space. I’m
sorry. I can ask around and see if anyone else could take you….blah
blah blah…. OK, I will meet you at mine in 30 minutes.” I’m not sure
what is being said on the other end of the phone, but this person
certainly has tenacity. My host hangs up and announces that he needs
to go home to meet a Russian hitchhiker who will stay with us tonight.
I don’t suppose by any chance it’s Stasia, I ask. Stasia was the girl
who took me hitchhiking in Russky Island. I took this footage on the
boat over to the island – she has a thing about orange but could only
find one orange shoelace.

“Yes,” says my host. “You know her?” And so the silver lining shines
yet brighter. Stasia carries a bubble-blowing kit wherever she goes,
plays the mouth-harp and likes a spot of skinny dipping – without a
hint of pretension, she is footloose and fancyfree. And so I had some
company at Guilin’s map of the world. Here we are trampling over
Birmingham the night she arrived.

I had someone to go for a stroll with the next day while my host had
to wait for a plumber.

We strolled to the Seven Star cave (just me and her in this vast, ancient cave).

There was someone to take a photo of me in front of a little white
rabbit-shaped rock formation (no, I couldn’t see it either; thought
best to recreate).

And she told me all about hitchhiking in China (ah, The Life
Vicarious): “If a Chinese man stops by the side of the road, it’s
because their car is in trouble. If a foreign girl stands by the side
of the road, they assume you’re in real trouble. My drivers they buy
me so much food so I don’t die [she shows me the photographic
evidence: crisps, fruit, biscuits, sweets – an ample picnic for five],
and then 15 minutes later, they buy me dinner. And nobody speak
English so it’s really…” she throws her arms out with grand
melodrama… “Theatre”. In fact, she told me all about hitchhiking.
“There’s one guy in our hitchhiking community who say he only spends
$300 in half a year – he just lives on rice.” But it’s not just about
free travel, is it, I ask, with wide-eyed (vicarious) idealism. “No –
some can pay for their travel.” (Of course, the idealism being that –
as with couchsurfing – the hitchhiker is really on the ground, open to
all sorts of random encounters; tellingly, Stasya’s Chinese is much
better than mine – we’ve been here for pretty much the same time.)
“Some hikers have all the good equipment – the good camera, the good
shoes, the good bag – and then they have to stand by the side of the
road and show the drivers they need a lift.” Meanwhile, Stasia’s shoes
are falling apart, I notice. “Yes! They come from China. I think they
choose to stay in China,” she grins, with characteristic Stasic charm.

Note to self: don’t overcomplicate the communication when
corresponding with locals.
This little lesson was learnt when approaching my most recent couch in
China, in Guilin (going south, getting warmer, now hitting 20
degrees!). I’d organised to stay with a native Chinese host (whoop!
These are rare beasts on couchsurfing!), who lives in a
tri-generational set-up (triple whoop). “Please let me know if it’s
possible to stay, otherwise I will find an alternative,” I’d said. And
possible it seemed – my host responded: “We have couch and floor for
you.” But just two days before I was due to arrive in Guilin, I
received the following bulletin: “I have given your couch to an
Australian man as you said you had alternatives.” Nooooo! How I cursed
my excessive verbiage – how I’d confused matters.
Oh anyway, I managed to find a new host, though not native but Serbian
– and, with some amount of silver lining, he happened to be a
couchsurfing ambassador (so, a) he knows everyone in town, and b) he
honours his offer). “Ah – you were going to stay with Bleepity Bleep,”
he said, when I explained Plan A. “He’s a married gay guy, and he also
lives with his mother. He’s on couchsurfing to meet young men. You
see, it’s very difficult to be gay in China.” Complicated, then.

So I found myself at dinner – as you do as a couchsurfer who can only
expect the unexpected – with the local expat band: three Argentine
jazz cats and an American singer. The guys are all talking in Spanish
to what turned out to be the band’s biggest fan who was taking them
all out for dinner. “Do you wanna know what they’re talking about,”
says the singer in a conspiratorial whisper to me. Yes! Why not…
“They’re asking the Chinese girl if the chilli [the very considerable
amount of chilli, that is] affects Chinese people as much as us when
they do a Number Two.” What appropriate dinner conversation - thank
you, boys. Well?! What’s the answer? No – of course not. But it begs
another question – what’s the Chinese euphemism for Ones and Twos?
“Sing a song!” says the Number One Fan. “When we want to go for a pee,
we say we want to go singing.” And…? What about Number Twos?
“Dancing!”
The band (called Lush, by the by) then recount how they were recently
interviewed by the local magazine and were asked to say what they
don’t like about Kunming… “Well, you know how much the locals stare
at Westerners?” one explained. “Well, when you go to the urinals, they
REALLY stare.”
Then, suddenly, I find a chicken’s claw on my plate: “Welcome to
Kunming!” says the singer. “If you eat too many chicken claws,” adds
Number One Fan, “they say your writing becomes really messy.” However
my host had heard otherwise: “If you get the claw, it means you get a
prostitute that night.” I was just girding myself to have a go –
because I like to have an informed opinion on these matters – when the
singer swiftly returned it to its home, an oily soup in the centre of
the table, only for my host to swiftly claim it for himself, in an
unconcealed act of manliness. And proceeded to suck on it (I’m sorry –
facts are facts). How is it, I ask. “It tastes like chicken,” he says
nonchalantly.

Just as Hollywood stars conduct closet commercial work in Tokyo
professing their lifelong allegiances to Suntory whisky, budgerigar
food and polythene nappy bags, so the prestige of a white face has
filtered down to Kunming, the land of my latest couch. So my Norwegian
host was offered (and took up) work posing as an American businessman
for a Chinese-American company who wanted to portray some white
“Americans” in their corporate propoganda (”There were genuine
Americans working for the company, but they were all Chinese
American,” he said). So they wrote him a speech for him to read out,
and took photos of him shaking hands, doing good intercontinental
business. And it was in a way – this stunt paid him about £300 (plus
hotel and expenses). Then I met a Swiss environmental engineer in the
Halfway House (don’t worry – just the name of a bar) whose
going-home-early excuse was that he had an appointment with a Chinese
TV camera crew the next day. They’d be filming him cooking some Swiss
dish (”stew,” he promised) for the Christmas special of a popular
cookery programme – and for his efforts, his Christmas spending budget
would be boosted by £50. He’d previously had work starring in a
commercial for a fertiliser company (a fertiliser company!) posing as
a Westerner signing a fertiliser contract (a fertiliser contract!):
“They think it shows that it’s a good company, if Westerners are
willing to do business with it,” he told me. “I know some expats who
get work just sitting in offices, without actually having to do any
work – just so that potential customers are enticed in by their white
faces.” My host also knew someone that worked in a perfumery
performing as a chemist (no prior experience necessary), mixing
potions in test-tubes behind a glass window for all passing traffic to
see. Apparently, you can make a living off it out here (if, of course,
you can live with yourself and the lie), and there are agencies and
even a scouting hotspot in Kunming – a cafe-filled street where
incidentally I’d been hanging out for several hours, apparently
perfectly invisible.

Just while I thought I was having the time of my life, I went and got
a boring complex. It first hit when out to dinner with my Chengdu host
(a 25-year-old Chinese law student with her own fashion boutique) and
her parents. My host had originally thought there’d be two other
couchsurfers to babysit me on my first night, but they mysteriously
left town early, so she invited me along to the family dinner. “Fun!”
I’d thought – though I knew I’d have to endure it pretty much mute,
due to the language barrier. And fun it was to watch them make toast
after toast with two hands cupping their rice wine, canned drink, duck
soup or whatever else was to hand. But obviously, my score on the
boring scale was already soaring, owing to being The Dumb One. Then we
join the gang in a bar, an international crowd of teachers and
students, many of whom are couchsurfers. The conversation soon turned
to couchsurfing. Apparently, her Irish boyfriend’s profile picture
features him with a violent, torrid nose bleed. (Why was your nose
bleeding, I ask. “Because my nose was bleeding,” he responds
sarcastically. Hmmph) His tactic here, he says, is to deter boring
people: only those who get the joke need apply. The night continues
with tale after tale about who are the most boring couchsurfers: “I
have a blanket ban on Polish couples,” says one girl from Brighton.
“Invariably boring – although I’ve only had two sets.” “And all
couchsurfers do the same old route – they’ve all come from Xi’an and
they’re all going to Kunming [guess where I'm going next – Kunming],”
says he of the bloody nose. Another says, “First I was looking for
friends on couchsurfing because I didn’t know anyone here, but now I
have an interesting social life, so the couchsurfers have to be really
interesting to make the grade.” I gulp, become self-conscious, and
then – I am sure – become quite boring. Later that night, back at my
host’s apartment, she asks: “Have you done crystal meth?” Oh no, I say
– it sounds really boring, at which point she produces a contraption
for ‘doing’ crystal meth. Oh my, is that the time? I say, stifling a
‘yawn’… And last night, without warning, my host spent the night
“with her parents” (read: boyfriend), so I was home alone after
returning from the opera. And today, she’s “teaching” all day.
I had presumed that being a successful couchsurfer requires getting on
with everyone. Which seems to require the shelving of any
controversial opinions and antisocial habits until such a time that
seems safe and open enough to introduce them (couchsurfing – I’ve said
it before: it’s classic first-date territory). Perhaps in the
meantime, that leaves a rather bland, superficial shell of a
character. And after one too many first dates, you become a bit over
the whole facade required in trying to please everyone, leaving a
naked, raw core, which can be a bit hard to take. Rather like suddenly
finding yourself confronted with a host who is totally starkers, in
fact (one guy I met from the Chengdu group is actually naked in his
profile picture; another says she was going to go naked on her profile
picture but she thought that would attract the wrong type). For some,
I’m sure it’s refreshingly thrilling. For boring types, it’s just all
too much excitement.

Pandamoneum
Overheard: “It’s going to be one of those days when you spend the
first half taking photos, and the second deleting them.” This morning
I went to the zoo… because, when in Chengdu, go and see the pandas.
As China’s national treasures, there’s no chance of cramped cruelty
and animals rocking in chronic psychosis – the giant pandas performed
perfectly in their chorophyll-heavy bamboo jungle. To conserve energy,
they are slothlike (cooo! Panda sleeping in tree!)

apart from at feeding time when they stuff themselves with bamboo
shoots and leaves (cooo! Fuzzy panda eating!).

And because their digestive systems are actually carniverous, they
only absorb 2% of the nutrients from bamboo, and do between 120 and
150 Number Twos a day (I’ll spare you the picture). In fact, after
laughing and laughing at these little teddy bears who fell off trees,
rough-and-tumbled like Calvin & Hobbes, and lay on their backs holding
bamboo like lollipops, it didn’t seem such a surprise that they are so
endangered (only 1,000 left.. sniff).

So there I am, minding my own business… (and so these stories always
start – “once upon a time, minding my own business”…), standing in
the street, sending an SMS when I hear the words, “May I help you?” Oh
I’m OK, thank you. “I can help you?” This young, polite lady seems
insistent on helping, and since I was about to try and locate a wifi
cafe, I think to myself, good timing! “Pardon?” In-ter-net? [Blank
face] In-ter-net? Oh I’m OK really, thank you. But still she’s keen:
“Please – excuse me?” So to save face for her, I draw a computer in my
notebook. And she swiftly puts her arm in mine and walks me up the
street. Hmmm, is she abducting me, I wonder. Why does she want me so
much? I instinctively, suspiciously pat my possessions in my coat, and
we continue with our real-life game of Pictionary and charades. “One
yuan for bus!” she commands. Oh I can’t get a bus – I’m going to the
opera in the park. “Pardon?” And so it goes on… We swap names (she
is “Moon”), and decide against locating an “electric brain” (how the
Mandarin for ‘computer’ translates), and instead she helps me find the
opera (which takes considerable street mime on my part to explain). We
pick up a friend, “Star”, who scores similarly highly on both bad

where they are surprised that I am surprised. “Not at night, you?” Not
ever aerobics in public, me!

Finally we arrive at the theatre in the park, where she offers me some
of her strange dried fish,

and where the actors are putting on the make-up in public view

and insists I call her tomorrow. Wondering quite how successful such a
phone call would be, I grin and agree, delighted by our strange little
intercourse, her dutiful dedication to helping me, and the blessing of
being able to waste time like this.

It seems that my first two-week spell in China didn’t really
acclimatise me: my return (first stop Chengdu, a city with a
population the size of London) has filled my mind and camera with a
veritable freak fest: a male security guard wearing frosted coral,
1950s grannie lipstick (yes, I was too cowardly to snap) – presumably
to protect his lips from the cold, a young girl eating clementines the
size of a cherry, another young girl eating a purple dyed cake, two
boys playing badminton using a road as a net

people scooting along wearing their coats backwards to keep their
chests warm (a major trend, it seems; photo soon, I hope), speakers in
the street disguised as rocks playing “Look Happy for the Tourists”
jazz musak,

hoods for coats slung over chairs in restaurants,

dentists in shop windows (transparency one step too far, surely).

Supermarkets, pharmacies and house parties – three of my favourite exotic experiences that I try to explore in a foreign land. But schools – now that was an ambition. I’d been hoping to visit a Chinese school since Xi’an – my hosts there were both private English teachers, and I’d done the whole “If there would be one thing I could do here, it would be to see Chinese school life”. I’d got past the school gates but I only really saw teachers (ya boo sucks!). So when I learnt that my Urumqi host was also a teacher – with bonus points for working at a state school – I started dusting down my charm again. “I’ll have a think about it and ask the school,” Number 11 had said. Given that the parents had called a meeting to complain that there weren’t enough foreign teachers in the school, I guess my request was readily sanctioned. And so, received by a welcome committee of Chinese students kowtowing at every door – a privilege not for me, but for anyone walking through any door seemingly – I shadowed Number 11 into his classroom.

“I’ve asked them all to prepare a question for you,” he warned. OK – that’s cool… What that meant was that Number 11 took to the sofa at the back of the room, while I cowered behind the front desk just like a teenager – all hands stuffed awkwardly in pockets – holding court with 14 17-year-olds (I was lucky – most class sizes are apparently 35 to 50; this was a special class to groom the students for international universities).

And so the questions came thick and fast: “Can you speak Chinese?” “Will you be volunteering for the London Olympics?” “Do you like China?” “Please tell us about this couchsurfing.” “Do you pray for designer fashion?” (Is that a hint or something?) And so I earnestly answered their questions, and, after some pushing from Number 11 (“You’re not supposed to just listen to her,” he admonished his class, “you’re supposed to interact, to think about what she’s said and ask something back. You see, Fleur, they’re all taught by the lecture method, where they just listen; they’re not used to engaging”), a kind of conversation ensued – albeit mostly with my teacher’s pet, who went by the international name of Tiger (teacher’s pet - Tiger! see?!). With his pink shirt, his hairdresser’s hairdo, his interest in women’s fashion and Sex And the City (“You are so Carrie Bradshaw!” he’d squealed), Tiger left no doubt as to his sexuality.

The school bell then rang (lessons here are 45 minutes) – a strangely hypnotic, polyphonic melody (very Prisoner). Number 11 announced that he was going out, and that we could continue. The questions continued, so I continued….

Right into the second English lesson. I got to ask my own questions back: What hours are you in school? 9am till 10pm. What happens if you’re late? “We get fined – 5 yuan (50p) the first time, then 10, then 15…” What do you do at the weekend? “Sleep!” they say in unison (they only have Sundays off). Why are some of you in uniform, others not? “We all have to wear uniform [check it out - “Swifter, Higher, Stronger”], but we wear our own clothes underneath and take off our jackets in the classroom. They don’t want us to compare ourselves to each other.” What are all these gadgets you’ve all got on your desks? “Electronic speaking dictionaries”. What do you want to do after you’ve graduated? I want to join the government because our president is so good and makes our country so strong. Hang on a minute, stop talking at the back there! (Several of them have turned around and are chattering with each other). Number 11 steps in: “I try to explain to them that when they go to their foreign universities, their tutors and the other students won’t like them talking in class, but they’re allowed to be like this in Chinese schools so it’s hard to change things.” We continue with the “What do you want to do?” tip: I want to work in petrochemicals – yes. I know they are finite, but I’ve done my research and we have 100 years left; I will die before that. I want to be a businesswoman. I want to make mobile phones. I want to be a fashion designer (guess who?). I want to be a businessman. I want to be a business woman with my own travel agency so I can travel around the world… I have seen the future and it’s yellow.

All change! No more Chinese, no more Uighur… Bring in the Kazakh and the Russki. And funnily enough, I’m sharing my cabin with another couchsurfer (from San Fran) who just lost her traveling companion. Funnily enough Number Two: I somehow found myself taking a 90-minute English class this afternoon! I even had a teacher’s pet-the third person this trip to compare me to Carrie Bradshaw (no-not why he was TP). All will be revealed!

So the Uighurs (pronouned ‘weeghurs’) - with about 40% of them in
Turpan, the local flavour is even more strongly theirs than in Urumqi
(where the population is more like 20%). Think snake-charmer pipe
music, distant drums, sequinned headscarves on the women, gambling in
the streets, chickens squawking, donkeys for transport (yes,
Hitchhiking on a Donkey: Novel Experience # 2381), bazaar life - with
the sandy tones of mud and straw-built houses and mosques in a dust
bowl town, one could even think for a moment that you were in Morocco.
Except for the state advertising in Chinese (as well as Arabic). And
of course, the dominant gene of Chinese cheekbones.

The Inpenetrable Pumpkin

And so onto dinner, where I was guest of honour (the name of the
restaurant? Fabulous Guest!). No speeches – just 10 dishes including
my first Peking Duck, all for just £2.30 each. As guest of honour,
the dishes arrive in front of you before anyone else. It totally foils
me – previously I’ve slyly waited for others to start strange dishes
to see quite how they negotiate them. Here I had to work out for
myself how to tackle a closed pumpkin with just a pair of chopsticks,
for example. And then onto the Irish/Kiwi bar again for me to be
handed over like an unwanted orphan from the old people into the fresh
hands of the young. And then onto a club called Armani – sadly this
one had to be a private joke between me and me, but what a joke it
was: Scottish whisky made in China mixed with green tea that was
downed in one, which had the curious effect of transforming my
chaperones into jiggling, shimmying, routine-loving boyband dancers.
And then, finally, exhaustedly (having arrived in Urumqi at 7am that
morning), I was dropped home by “Mr BMW” (for obvious reasons), to a
blow-up mattress in the living room and a date the next day to be
escorted to the oasis of Turpan, a historic Silk Road town and nearest
drop-off to the desert city ruins of Jiaohe. And so to sleep? Not
likely when there are days like these to process through in my mind
(so let me get this straight: I arrived, I couldn’t make my host
smile, he left me, I had to make this speech…). It takes hours to
unwind, and just as I do it’s time to wake up. And for some reason,
every day seems to be a day like this.

Amarni

And suddenly, I heard those words: “Fleur, we would like you to make a
speech.” It was “Luther”, one of the Chinese regulars. A speech?!
What about?! How very 39 Steps, I thought to myself. “Yes, yes, please
stand – yes, stand here, that’s right. Thank you very much. Ladies and
gentlemen, we are very lucky today…” Ah, how I would have howled
with hysteria had anyone I knew – even Number 11 – been witness to
this. Thank God – or thank couchsurfing – I had a readymade story. And
so I gabbled on about couchsurfing through Russia, Mongolia and China
for as few seconds as I could get away with, and quickly took my bow
and sat down. Only to be surrounded by as many as could fit round a
table all asking me questions. “Excuse me, may I ask a question
please” - that kind of thing. Actually it was extremely interesting –
I heard the truth about China’s only children (”They are too
dominant,” says one of the few older ones with a brother. “They are
selfish,” says another…”Tsk, be careful what you say,” says an
overly made-up female teacher). And I heard so, so much more besides,
but the shaggy dog is growing … Many had excellent English, many
self-taught – although when I explained, for the nth time, that I was
going to couchsurf in Bahrain on my stopover to London, and one said,
“Ah yes, the bank in Asia the British man bring down,” I didn’t have
the heart to set him straight.