Addendum and closure

A quick note to point out that I have opened a new blog after my move to Beijing which you may find at jadedmenhir.livejournal.com. It is updated regularly and I hope to see you all there soon.

Of being stabbed up...

Some of you will doubtless have heard this story, others will have heard bits and pieces while to others, this will be completely new. I apologise if I have not contacted you since this happened, I bear all fault in this and hope to speak to you all soon. As we near the end of May 2006, I am shocked to think that all these events have occurred within the last month, so distant do they seem in many ways. The first week of May saw your intrepid hero head for the mountains of Tai Hang Shan in southern Hebei for six days of 'hwyl a sbri' during May Holiday. This week was a fantastic success on all accounts and many of its participants as well as other friends headed out for a night out on the town to celebrate its ending. At around 11am, the night slowed down and six of us headed for a club called Joy Fun in the middle of People's Park here in Shijiazhuang. It was the last night that the Filipino house band, whom we were very good friends with, would play before they headed for Korea. Unfortunately, this night was not to prove a fitting tribute to the tireless entertainment they had provided for 5 months. At around 2 am, we left the club slowly, one of my friends holding a tambourine that the band had loaned her, and that she had forgotten to return. However, within a few seconds of leaving, a waiter chased us out and demanded we retun the instrument, which we did without delay. We walked on for a few yards before we heard some running steps behind us. Lauren and I were 100 feet or so behind the rest of the group chatting and we turned to be accosted by an angry-looking Chinese guy who began screaming at Lauren in Chinese. Speaking Chinese slightly better, I interposed myself and began asking the guy what the problem was. He turned to me and screamed before punching me in the face. Hard. I took a step back, reeled, and he punched me again before I could react. Getting over my shock, I returned the favour with all my strength and turned to see six other Chinese men running towards me, implements held high. Implements.....bollocks, it was a veritable arsenal. Baseball bats, bamboo canes, knives, screwdrivers. I ran towards the rest of my group of friends but was caught and hit over the head with a bat. Going down, I fell and was quickly surrounded. At this point, Billy, Tom and Lea came in to my rescue, saving my bacon from a truly magnificent whupping. However, in our slightly inebriated state, harm came to all of us. Lea, showing the galantery living inside every thug, was only hit with a baseball bat once on the back. Tom, taking on one of the guys, was hit over the head hard and stabbed deeply in the right buttock with a screwdriver. Billy was assaulted by two others who hit his arm three times with a bat, fracturing it twice and dislocating his elbow. Meanwhile, I got up, unable to assess my injuries, and tried to flag down a cab. One stopped but as I got in, he drove away fast, leaving me to fall out of it and causing another one of these idiots to attempt to smash my knee with a bat. He missed and caught my upper shin, thank the Lord. At this point, our attackers got into a cab and left. However, the damage was done. Beyond the punches and baseball bats to the head and knee, I had also received six stab wounds to the left buttock, back and side, the latter passing a hair from my left kidney, as well as a severed tendon in my left arm, paralysing my little finger. However, seeing Tom collapse and Billy's arm shattered, this was no time to dilly-dally. Flagging down another cab, my adrenaline kicked in and lasted long enough for the three of us plus Cat, the sixth member of our group and to whom I owe my life for her actions that night. We arrived at the hospital and emerged from the cab. Tom and I had by this point lost copious amounts of blood and I passed out in the parking lot. Billy, on one arm!!!, shouldered Tom into the hospital. I awoke and dragged myself inside before passing out again. I remember Cat running down the corridor, calling for someone, anyone and me wondering: 'Hmmm, I seem to have lost a lot of blood. This is probably not a good thing. ' The next thing I know, we were put onto stretchers and wheeled into a room. After a short while, Tom and I were brought to the OR for surgery. Local anaesthetic. On stab wounds. In China. Not a position I wish on anybody. Except Pol Pot. And maybe Michael Howard. 99 stitches in all during a 2 and a half hour operation. Apparently, I screamed on occasion. WELL, NO BLOODY SURPRISE THERE!!!!! Anyway, I woke up to find myself next to Tom in a three-bed room and there we were to stay for a week, Billy being treated in another hospital specialising in fractures. The support from our friends was incredible. Not a minute passed where we were alone. A member of the New Times staff was always on hand (Jack, I cannot thank you enough), Tom provided excellent company and repartee (except when drips were involved). Remember this for future reference: Men from Oswestry do not like needles. Furthermore, we were constantly fed junk food by over 40 friends who kept us in amazingly high spirits. We were also visited by the Mayor of Shijiazhuang, with a pompous retinue, who brought us huge bouquets of flowers wishing us a speedy recovery. Yeah, you sadistic Commie, if you really cared half as much about us as much as you did about what this could do to your precious city's reputation...But I vent. After being interrogated by the police for six hours from 11.30 to 4.30 at night, we heard the seven suspects had finally been caught and that they were facing attempted murder charges carrying penalties from 5 to 20 years. Two weeks we gave you, twenty years you give us. You fools, you contemptible fools. Anyway, after six days of being treated by Doctor Jia (handsomest and coolest man in the world) and his bevy of cute nurses (Dammit Tom, we never did find out what spongebath was in Chinese), we were free to go. Scarred, stitched, bruised, flip-flop footed but free. We had not been defeated. That same night, I did something which could seem stupid to many but made sense to me. I went back to the scene of the attack. A quiet entrance to a benign park, children played, their young minds oblivious to the violence that had occurred where they played, old men chatted, their wise heads together in deep conversation and behind them, hidden by the boles of a copse, Joy Fun. What this attack really happened? Would I not wake up from this nightmare, sweating, my leg sliding over instinctively, seeking to find the illusional warmth of an absent companion? The urge to scream gripped me but I quelled it. I turned and directed myself to McDonald's Bar, the usual foreigner hangout in Shijiazhuang. It was 9pm on a Saturday night and the place was teeming. As I walked in, the bar erupted. I was hugged, cheered, kissed, embraced, had drinks bought for me, by wonderful friends overjoyed to see me standing once again among them. Then why, in the midst of all this celebration, did I feel uncomfortable? Why did I long for the loneliness of my familiar flat, for my cool bedsheets, for the soft whir of my fan? I soon left, a decision I now understand. However, one fight remained for all of us involved. China? Would we stay and face our demons or would we return home, beaten? Except for Billy who preferred to return to Southern California for adequate treatment on his arm, we all stayed. We miss you, De La Hoya. On the night he left, the six of us finally got together, giving this tragedy the importance it deserved. Our recovery passed swiftly and smoothly. Our stitches were removed, my cast came off and all that was left was to regain some control over our lives. It was only last weekend that I managed to leave Shijiazhuang for the first time. Along with Cat, we headed for Beijing to meet up with Mark, Nicky, Stef and James, old friends and veterans of the May Holiday. After two days passed in such marvellous company and in a city as cool as Beijing, it is easier to take stock of the past and help move away from it once and for all. I end this letter here. Enough words have been written, enough tears shed over a senseless and pointless tragedy. It ends here.

All the thrills of a warzone (without the hail of bullets).

For the insular among you, this weekend is the Lunar New Year, the cause for billions of Chinese to simultaneously go crazy, kow-tow to their grandparents and attempt to desperately blow off any limbs they don't currently have a use for. For the next two weeks, your esteemed Chinese correspondent will be surviving on 3 hours sleep a night, the only time at which the collective population of this insane nation decide to get some shut-eye. From 7am to 4am, for 15 days, 3.6 billion fireworks will be let off daily in Shijiazhuang alone. Do the math, do the math. That is far too many fireworks per day per person to be civilized. I spent the first evening of this joyous uproar in the company of Joe, his girlfriend Wei and Nan Nan. Joe, as a former chef, provided a most sumptuous feast during which the heights of tantric pleasure attained by my taste buds fought a losing battle with my put-upon ears, raped as they were with a myriad of colourful explosions. During lapses of conversation, our attention was drawn by CCTV 1's annual Spring Festival Show, so vast, long and cheesily varied that it makes Dick Clark's New Year's Rockin' Eve seem like the Hungarian entry in the Eurovision Song Contest. 800 million Zhongguoren watch this extravaganza every year which for you stats fans is equivalent to the combined populations of the USA, Russia, the UK, France, Germany and Japan put together. That's still leaving 600 million casually munching their way through dumplings.......This country is just silly, sometimes. After the last of our plates had been licked clean, the time had come to launch some fireworks of our own and show these Chinese how to blow things up LAOWAI-STYLE!!!!! Heading out with his usual brand of swaggering self-confidence and so-close-yet-so-far from being hilarious brand caustic wit (I know, Joe, I know, kick nuts), Joe grabbed the bag of fireworks and strode down the icy street, leaving your behatted hero following in his wake. Arriving outside the People's High Court of Hebei Province, Joe catches my glare and an evil rictus dawns on our faces. Two minutes later, Wei and Nan Nan's screams mingle with our laughter as we set off torpedo rosettes outside the province's supreme judicial authority. My time to shine would come two blocks down the street when I set off my first Chinese fireworks right outside the Chinese Environmental Bureau (two fingers to the Ozone layer AND the Chinese government!). Following this, Nan Nan and I made our way back through the streets towards our respective homes. On the way past the train station, we were greeted by a scene of chaos, mayhem and brouhaha unseen and unimagined outside Beirut circa 1988. All the younger workers and night guards from surrounding businesses and factories had taken to the streets with the hugest types of fireworks. These are the ones that require pyrotechnical diplomas and a 200 foot security perimeter back home. These were lined up all the way down a quarter-mile street, each major box of fireworks not more than 15 feet apart and with one person manning each and a smattering of people standing among them. Dangerous enough until you then realise that these eager young souls had no training and thus caused many of these fireworks to explode too soon in the air, spitting rainbow fiery sparks to fall on the street below, still alight. Nan Nan and I had to dodge and run countless times but the beauty and insanity of the moment kept us there for over an hour, both of us laughing our asses off before we each went home for some well-earned kip.

Then come, let us sit as men do and discuss important things.

Why does life's ability to rapidly change surprise us? After all, we spend years developing our own lives followed by shaping our children's but do we ever stop to think how in one second, all those plans can go awry, for good or ill? The death of a loved one, a break-up, a job opportunity, an unexpected pregnancy. Every one of these events and a thousand others consistently threaten to wrench any illusion of control we thought we had on our lives. Since I last wrote to you, in 2005, things have taken an interesting turn for the better here. Due to my diligence, tireless work ethic and superlative skill (or more realistically due to opportunism, good luck and kindness from friends), I have been offered a new position at IEEA/New Times. With the departure of Roger at the end of this month, I shall be taking over the headhunting and recruitment side of business for the company. This means that I shall be responsible for locating and convincing foreign teachers to come to China through our agency, a position of no small responsibility. Rest assured before you gasp in terror that my duties on the newspaper remain although I shall now no longer be teaching. This led to a very emotional day at Shijiazhuang Foreign Language School when my students found out it would be my last day. I leave to your active and base imaginations the effect that 300+ Chinese emotional teenage girls flinging themselves at you, begging to have their photo taken with you or pressing small notes into your hand and barely restraining themselves from cleaning your feet with their hair, has on one's ego and self-confidence. Since extirpating myself from this deluge of damsels in distress, I have begun work on several more projects of value. The first and more concrete one is the resumption of writing work on 'Halls of Residence', the sitcom I have had ballotting in my saddle-bags as I ride off into the sunset for 2 years now. Unexpected and most welcome help came in the person of Sarah Rosling, a true companion and friend from my time at Aberystwyth and whose enthusiasm for the project is surpassed only by the consummate humour and writing skill she has so far demonstrated. Our current aim is to have something ready to send to Channel 4 Comedy, or failing that BBC, by this summer. The second and more distant one is my potential involvement in a research trip to West Africa in the summer of 2007. Through my father, I have been in recent contact with Konrad Tuchscherer at St. John's University. These two masters in their field have offered me the opportunity to participate in a 4 country tour of West Africa, investigating the modern-day usage of African scripts such as Vai and Mende. (To all you uneducated masses, pray Google these two names and observe the complexity of these scripts, which I will attempt to learn in the next 18 months.) My exact role on this project is yet to be fully determined but my enthusiasm and determination to repay the trust Konrad and Dear Elder have put in me are firm. Nevertheless, given the 18 month delay until this project begins, I am fighting a losing battle to keep my enthusiasm from gaining the better of me, for fear of later disappointment. This is all for now, I raise my glass to David Dalby, Liz Crockett, Paddy Cooper, Konrad Tuschscherer, Sarah Rosling, Zac Johnson who have so far contributed most to my enjoyment of 2006.

How do we make a difference?

I was lying in bed just now, 3.33pm a Wednesday afternoon, watching the West Wing. My affection for this show lies in the fact that it gives out a message of hope and courage in a time when these values, and what they can achieve, lie abandoned by the roadside. Our lives are regulated by how we work, what we eat, who we see, what we spend our money on. All of us in the adult world expend our worries on how much tax we pay, how happy we are in our job, how we will raise our children. But what else is there? Is this all we are compelled to do? Not at all. It is simply all that most of us can do. It's a shame really. I had a student come to me recently at the end of class. I had just led a debate on gay rights, which had divided my class as nigh on every topic does, when this student came to find me and admitted to me that she was gay and in a happy relationship. Looking down into Pig's face (yes this is her English name), I scanned for any trace of doubt, fear or nervousness, for any of the insecurity that flickers in the eyes of most Middle Kingdom residents. I found none. If in a country where homosexuality was labelled a mental disorder until 2001, one student can find that level of bravery and optimism, what can we not do in the West? In the press, this year, I have read the same negative reports on all branches of the forum politic. Yet, what triumphs 2005 brought. 31 developing countries relieved of the crippling economic burden we so-called enlighten lands loaded them with. Gay civil unions celebrated across Britain for the first time. The enlargement of the European Union in the next few years to embrace our friends in Bulgaria, Romania, Croatia and Turkey. When will we shed this cloak of eternal somberness that pervades our culture? There are no jobs for young people, our schools and hospitals are falling down, our soldiers are being sent into a conflict that does not concern them. Criticism after criticism are levelled at a government which despite its many failings contains many individuals desperately trying to serve a country they love. Of course, active debate is always needed. But mindless barrages of abuse falling on the cobblestones of Whitehall will help no-one. Where is the debate? Where are the days of glorious political showdowns as came between Disraeli and Gladstone, Kennedy and Nixon? I am tempted to smile as I see David Cameron bringing the Tories back into the game. If I frown at the concept of a potential Tory government after the next election, their resurgence will hopefully raise the bar of debating in the UK. And what of I? China has proven alluring. I could have settled down here. But it also made me complacent. For the last year, I have been working as a teacher, a journalist, an editor, a writer. I hope and believe that I have made a difference. I have made friends and enemies, formed friendships that will last a lifetime, enjoyed experiences both professional and personal that have molded me into a very different person to when I stepped off Turkish Airlines flight 322 on January 25th. It's time for me to return now. Return to Britain and fight for my chance to accomplish something, to make a difference. I do not claim to be armed with any more insight, with any more clarity of thought to other stalwart members of my generation. I simply want to participate. Whether in politics, journalism, writing, opportunities to influence this time of change are too many for me to miss. I am comforted however in the knowledge that should I falter and fail to accomplish this goal, the generation that graduated from university with and around me will change this world for the better. Too often have we been marginalised as uncaring, ungrateful for the legacy of achivement inherited from our parents and grandparents, complacent for not having faced a crisis that threatened our very livelihoods. Your mistake, world!

The Changing Social Circles of DOOOOOM!!!!!

It has been an odd fact in my short life that fate seems unwilling to accord me many long-lasting friendships. I do not mean by this that I am afflicted by a lack of social graces or rudeness but simply that no matter what group of friends I acquire, we inevitably drift apart after a while. There are some notable exceptions such as Marie-Astrid Lefebvre whom I still see whenever I breeze through Paris and whom I have known since I was 3. But I hear you heckle me from the gallery. Chris, why do you bore us with such fond reminiscences? Have it your way, insufferable proles, I shall feed your basest instincts for gore, lust and debauchery. In my next post. For today, you will bear me waxing lyrical about the new people and places that have beset my existence. Having sorted out any lasting problems with Hutchin, the school for whom I worked for six months, I was offered a flat by IEEA in a pleasant compound (well as pleasant as neo-communist mass-built towering breeze blocks can get) named China Green Garden. At the back of China Green Garden. Which is huge. So once you negotiate your way through the odd 500 metres of compound to the door of my building, does relaxation await you? Oh no, the top of the building has the privilege of my company. 7 floors of endless stairs. But hey, it keeps you fit. Upon passing the vault door that guards my new home, I am usually greeted by an inquiring look and a warm smile. Those of my new flatmate, a fine and upstanding young gentleman, named Frank Pudney. Having grown up in Newton Blossomville (no satire could do that name true justice), Frank found a calling for art early on in life and possesses the enviable trait of having abandoned any pretence to dedicate himself to his chosen line of artistic accomplishment. When I say, Frank found a calling for art, I underestimate him. The man is gifted. Truly. I would not belittle his muse by describing his style in such harsh context as a blog but I predict success for him in the future. We are of very different temperament but his mellowness and laid-back attitude do complement my perhaps more overbearing personality. Suffice it so say, we get on well and no cloud seems to be darkening this horizon. But one is rarely confined to the walls of one's dwelling or place of residence. 'Tis the nature of modern society that homo sapiens sapiens must rise above the savage through such modern and wonderful inventions as 'commuting', 'rush hour' and 'car pooling'. I personally have to confess my hilarity at these notions as I pedal through the streets of Shijiazhuang, flitting through the sinuous and dangerous roads of this big city as gracefully and as daintily as Pavarotti performing 'Swan Lake'. When I arrive at work, I am confronted with the magical chaos that is the IEEA/New Times office. On my right, Shelley, Ally and Michael all diligently work away at their respective tasks, ringing schools, sorting out money, dealing with visas. The sight of the three of them working simultaneously takes up about 15 minutes of each day as at other times, phone conversations, reading, talking to friends online and even sleeping seem to cut into their routine. The momentary peace they gain in any such moments is on occasion ruptured by the bellow emerging from the chest and vocal chords of IEEA's leader (along with Mr. Dou), Joe Johnston. Now, Joe is certainly an enigmatic man and someone for whom I have nothing but love and respect. Raised in Birmingham, Alabama, Joe and his family could cordially be said to have raised themselves by the bootstraps. I will not crassly divulge elements of Joe's life which are his to reveal as he will but he has brought to IEEA a wealth of business experience, a direct, in-your-face, take-no-prisoners managerial attitude, a quick wit and a veiled anger, both of which I have found myself victim of numerous times. Joe has also taken on, sometimes grudgingly, sometimes very willingly, the role of my mentor. At 39, he does not fit into any Mr. Miyagi type stereotypes but he has shown an uncanny ability to steer me straight and to occasionally bitch-slap me back into line when it is necessary (and it often is). My debt of gratitude and of honor to this man are great as without him and the consistent faith he has shown in me, my position in China today would be unthinkable. The last person in this triumvirate is in her own words 'a stylish and intelligent' young lady whom I have recently become acquainted with. (Yes, I do let people see what I write about them first. Usually.) Let us call her Nicola Bowerman, for such was she christened. After 9 months in China, one's mind begins to boggle. The smells, sights and sounds that formerly made us wonder have now become familiar, almost homely. Which does make me wonder as to the sheer adaptability of the human spirit. There's another blog topic in there somewhere. Anyway, despite any feelings of familiarity, the mind does desire learned conversation on areas that are closer to one's roots. To this purpose, Nicola has proven to be a god-send. Verbal jousting over Freud, Nietzche, De Sade and Voltaire have provided most meritorious and relaxing stimuli outside the realm of everyday work. Having arrived in China only two months ago, her settling in and adoption of the pace of Chinese life has been impressive, particularly since she resides in the town of Hengshui, an hour east of Shijiazhuang, and that the cries of 'laowai' and 'Hello' ring out like the shrill cawing of gulls surrounding the trawlers coming into dock. After living in a country where the potential of any debate is severely crimped by the refusal of most Chinese to defend a position, the mental wipe-out that usually follows an exchange with Nicola has been most exhilirating. As Joe once put it, 'she verbally jousted your ass to hell and back'. All in all, a shared love of wine, literature and Pringles make for an explosive combo. Toodles, Dolmen (or some such Celtic construct)

Ode to Pretentiousness or How the Arrogant Little Laowai Took A Great Big Tumble

Dear readers, For those of you in China, particularly my esteemed laowai, the name of Da Shan will blend hilarity and anger in a lethal combination. For those charmed souls who frequent these pages without gracing the Middle Kingdom of their presence, let me provide a bit of a backstory to the name. Foreigners are more often than not gawked at in China. The differences between China and the rest of the world are enormous and foreigners are often viewed as somewhat mystical as if outside the norm of time and space. Well, perhaps I use a slightly too allegorical exaggeration but you get the picture. Da Shan is without a doubt the most popular foreigner among Chinese people on the mainland. Born in Canada, his birth name is Mark Rowswell. He is famous for one thing and one thing alone. He speaks effortlessly fluent Chinese. I mean, above the level of many Chinese people or so I have been told. He presents various TV programs about teaching English or Chinese and makes a good living off advertising. So far, so good. However, I omitted one thing. Among foreigner, he is famous for one another thing. Being an unadulterated, thoroughbred, pompous, puffed-up, overbearing, arrogant little jackass. And I mean that in the bad sense. I have never met or heard of a man who is so unbelievably narcissistic. I mean, I may petition the OED to use dashanistic as a synonym for the word. (Boo to you, Nicola). Let me first provide you with some excerps from this man's own website: 'Yet 15 year later there is still nobody who even comes close to rivaling Dashan's recognition and appeal. If appearing on TV speaking fluent Chinese was all that it took, there would be hundreds of "Dashans" by now.' Dashan spans this great divide between East and West by breaking through the old definitions of "insiders" and "outsiders". To a large extent Dashan is regarded in China as "one of us". To many Chinese who feel that their traditional culture is being forgotten in the rush to modernization, Dashan's image provides comfort and hope. And my personal favourite: While many foreign nationals appear on television in China, none have reached the celebrity status of a "household name" like Dashan, nor do they work in such a broad range of fields. Dashan is truly one of a kind. Truly remarkable, ain't it? Please visit his website www.dashan.com to witness the true scale of this man's grotesquery. On top of that, all his business is now conducted through his company, guess what it's called...Dashan Inc. Sweet Blessed Mother of God! Anyway, what is my point in telling you about this man? I have never ranted for ranting's sakes and I am delighted to tell you that very recently, the production company making an old 26-episode Dashan vehicle, nausea-inducingly named 'Dashan and Friends in Canada' (Remake of Debbie Does Dallas perhaps), has been implicated in embezzling a great deal of money which should have gone towards actually making the show. Dashan, magnificent as always, springs to his own defence on his website and denies everything. Hehehehe. Evil cackle. Ominous laugh. Cavernous hilarity. Toodles. PS: Please, please, please, in the name of the Lord, visit the Performance and Photos parts of dashan.com. No words can make this funnier than it already is.