Expect the Unexpected

 

Oh my God!

 

You are not going to believe the story I am about to tell you – even I find it hard to believe!

Penelope and I had come to the city of Xian and settled ourselves into a hotel for the weekend.

 

Friday afternoon, we wandered around the marketplace buying fresh food for Shabbat. Next to me, picking apples, was a Chinese guy wearing a funny hat. It seemed a bit odd, but I didn’t think much about it. Suddenly he looked at me and, in a thick Chinese accented English said: “Excuse me, are you Jewish?”

“Actually, I am” I said, flabbergasted. 

 

“Yes, I thought so. So am I. Are you here for long? Can I invite you to join my family for Shabbat?” I was reeling, quite unsure how to relate to this absurd introduction. The guy saw my disorientation and clarified “Don’t worry, we keep kosher. But there won’t be any meat - it is hard to come by in these parts”.

I looked down at Penelope who remained silent. I was pretty sure she was waiting for me to make a decision. I was intrigued by a Chinese Jewish fellow in the middle of nowhere. But my mantra has always been, ‘Never say no to a new experience’. 

 

“That would be lovely. We are staying at the Xianximen Hotel”. 

 

Ying Dao was his name and he wrote his address for me in Chinese letters as well as in PinYin (using roman letters). Then, glancing at Penelope, he added, “Please bring your friend. You are welcome to carry her – we are inside the city walls so there is no problem of carrying on the Sabbath”. I wasn’t quite sure whether this fellow really was Jewish, but this was certainly going to be an unusual cultural experience. How exciting!

P and I finished our shopping and headed back to the hotel. We were in a relatively small town with a population of only 1 ½ million, but the traffic was already at a standstill. So instead of catching a rickshaw we went by foot. All the way, Penelope couldn't stop chattering about everything she had read on China’s Jewish communities. Beijing and Shanghai have had Jewish populations on and off for ages, although now they mostly identify with Chabbad. I told her about a cousin of mine, today living in Melbourne at 97 years of age, who grew up in Harbin – north east of Beijing - after leaving Russia in 1917. Also well known is the Jewish community of Kaifeng, which is now defunct. But here, in the country’s midwest?

The sun came low on the horizon and we lit Shabbat candles at the hotel (after notifying the staff for safety reasons). Then we then set off past the bustling Muslim night market to the home of our host.

Ying Dao lived in a small hutong (Chinese alleyway) built around a network of siheyuen (courtyards). The fragrance of delicious cooking emanated from a particular courtyard and I called out our host’s name. Ying Dao rushed out to greet us, dressed in traditional Chinese garb. “Shabbat Hou” (Chinese for Shabbat Shalom) he said and ushered us inside to meet his family. Dao Taitai (Mrs Dao) was a quiet, modest woman, but like most Chinese, she smiled warmly. The young son wore a square silk Kippah, while the daughter stood aside quietly, nodding recognition of our presence. The table was set with a white cloth and three loaves of circular bread. Looking around the room it was clear that these were not wealthy people, but they exuded a warmth that was very inviting.

Until that moment I had been on alert, half expecting my hosts to be representing Jews for Jesus. All the time I had to remind myself that proselytising in China is illegal and I had nothing to worry about. And I was right.

Dinner was delightful. The Shabbat ritual was unusual to say the least, with tunes I had never heard before. Then the food came; Chinese vegetarian dumplings, mushroom and eggplant stirfry (with tons of garlic, just the way I like it!), vegetable soup (boring but tasty), stringy tofu with a silky texture and copious amounts of steamed rice. As usual in Chinese meals, there was no fresh salad. I ate well, to the extent of feeling a little embarrassed.

Penelope just sat at her place, silently, staring at the walls. I am not sure why she felt uncomfortable, because our hosts had been so accepting of us both and of her in particular. (I periodically knocked her chopsticks so that it looked like she had used them).

Ying Dao told us a little about his family. They were the only Chinese Jews - that they knew of - in the area. Family legend attributes their Judaism to the experiences of an ancestor who went to California in the gold rush era, during the reign of the second last Chinese emperor. Our host apparently had an uncanny ability to recognise Jews, and whenever he did he instantly invited them home to grace his table.

There were times, Ying Dao told us, when Maoist officials had caused him problems. It started with persecution for breaching the country’s ‘One Child’ policy, and he and Dao Taitai had not dared do that more than once. But government policies had relaxed in recent times, and he was accordingly less concerned with hiding his religious practice. In a half concealed section of the back room (he later showed me) was a computer with Internet connection, on which he liked to watch the free Kabbalah channel.

His daughter had an alluring air about her and I tried to distract myself from it. I am not sure if this was noticeable, but Penelope was suddenly asked all sorts of questions. Our new friends were clearly intrigued by our connection, especially when I described us as “partners”. (That word means so many different things these days. I hope they understood my meaning…).

Dessert consisted of caramelised banana. We were warned that this had to be eaten while hot, otherwise the caramel would solidify and becomes impossible to eat. It was delicious. The meal closed with a cup of lychee tea (the others had green tea, but I avoided drinking caffeine).

Grace after meals (their version of it) was recited by the son in dulcet tones and I spent most of the time trying not to laugh because he sounded so funny. Penelope bit my finger to shut me up.

P and I got up to leave, but in a departure from Chinese tradition, Ying Dao embraced us both. It had been an amazing evening. This was one of those travel experiences that are unique and personal and must be cherished. As we stepped back out into the hutong, I braced myself for the cold weather.

We walked back to the hotel in silence. So much to think about. Jews? Out here? Who would have thought? How do they deal with issues requiring a minyan, or a mikveh? To whom did they refer their rabbinical questions? Why didn’t they move to seek out a Jewish community? How did they educate their children? Did they live like Spanish Marranos? If they wanted to pass on their tradition, who would their children marry? How were they able to maintain their strict religious beliefs in such a foreign atmosphere? Didn’t they sometimes just want to be the same as everyone around them?

We got back to the hotel quite late and climbed the stairs to the second floor. The hotel attendant smiled graciously, pointing to where we had lit the candles to show that they had been let to burn themselves out. She then pulled out her master keycard and opened the electric lock on our room door. I turned to close the door behind us to block out the noise and faint smell of booze wafting up from the bar downstairs. But first I looked at the attendant. Knowing that she would not understand, I quietly wished her a “Shabbat Hou”.

Then, as the door shut, I thought I heard her whisper back knowingly, “Ni Yeh Yo Shabbat Hou” (You also have a good Shabbat).

And if you believe all that, then you’ll believe anything.

Half The Fun

China is big. No, like REALLY big. To get around, people think nothing of sitting on trains for 2 or 3 days at a time. Trains are so popular that you often need to book a few days in advance.

Foreign tourists with limited time usually fly. I prefer the train. After all, wherever you are going, getting there should be half the fun. I love the hustle and bustle of people at the train station, all going different places, all on a journey.

Nothing beats the sense of adventure when looking out the train window. The landscape whooshes by to the regular drumbeat of the tracks underneath. A farmer looks up from his shovel to watch the passing train. Two boys on bicycles race the train along a dirt track in an orchard. What will their life be like when the train has disappeared from view?

Our destination was a 14 hour train ride away. I managed to book P and myself the more expensive “soft sleeper” berth on a “fast train”, which cut the travel time down to 11 hours.

Everyone entering the train station had their bags X-rayed. P hates that. She once shared an experience when her tooth was X-rayed. The dentist put on a lead apron and ran outside the room to protect himself. If it’s so safe, she screamed, why did he have to run away? She has had a fear of X-rays ever since, not to mention her associated conspiracy theories. I am considering arranging some sort of therapy for her. (Any suggestions would be welcome).

There were so many people at the train station that I got hopelessly lost. At least a dozen waiting halls each held hundreds of people. At the sight of the crowds Penelope felt very small, and I let her rest in my pocket for the meanwhile where I knew she wouldn’t be so frightened.

With some effort I found our waiting hall. People everywhere crammed every available seat. Some sat on their luggage, some slumped over in exhaustion. Many had come from God knows where and needed a good wash.

Thankfully, I struck up a conversation with some French passengers on a package tour. I say thankfully, because had it not been for their Chinese guide, I would never have known when my train was boarding. Together with an enormous crowd we wandered down to the platform. A smartly uniformed woman stood at attention at each carriage door, checking tickets (see picture). P, who had come up for a quick peek, popped back in my pocket; we only had one ticket and I didn’t want the attendant to make a fuss if she knew there were two of us.

The train itself was very nice. Each cabin had 4 beds with clean linen, as well as drinking water. Every carriage had a large urn to make hot drinks or for BYO dehydrated meals. There were even disposable slippers for every passenger! And believe me, when you use a squat toilet on a fast moving train after someone else, you don’t want to be barefoot.

Fold up seats lined the corridor, making it possible to look out the window in comfort. An elderly man came and sat opposite me. "Do...you...speak...English?" he asked very tentatively. The man was a retired engineer and about the only person in the carriage with any command of English. Others surrounded us, amused by the conversation.

Jetlagged, he and his wife were just returning home from a trip to Europe and the United States to visit their children. His eyes clouded over when I asked how he was allowed to have 3 children despite the "One Child Policy. I wondered whether he had a privileged position in society, or just lived where enforcement was slack. " His wife joined the conversation and, convinced I had a good understanding of Mandarin, babbled away warmly for half an hour. Her husband later translated, and I discovered that I had misconstrued everything she had said.

I lay down on my bunk. P retired early while I jotted down notes in my diary. Suddenly, the passenger below me stood up and handed me some headphones, pointing at my feet. It was then I saw that each passenger had an LCD TV at the base of his bunk. I plugged in the headphones and watched some movie trailers in English before getting some shut eye.

Ah yes. Train travel in China is definitely the way to go.

Having said that, I will admit that it’s not always ideal. Passengers sometimes play cards all night, smoking and holding noisy conversations. Sleep can be impossible. Crying babies. Dirty linen. “Hard sleeper” berths with 3 tiered bunks, where the top passenger (in this case, me) has so little room he can’t sit up, and just to read he has to climb down passed the two bunks beds below him.

But it’s all part of the travel experience, and I wouldn’t swap it for anything.

I think.

Keeping It Clean

Stepping out of the shower, I wrapped myself in a towel. Taking a quick moment to admire myself in the mirror, I spotted some lint in my naval and quickly removed it. Now where did I put that clean underwear?

“I’m coming out” I shouted.
“OK, just make sure you’re decent” came Penelope’s reply. I opened the door. P was busy writing her diary (yes, she writes one too) and didn’t bother looking up. I grabbed my pack and riffled through it for some clean underpants but couldn’t find any. Not great news for a nomad.
“Look in the dirty laundry bag” said P, instinctively knowing what I was doing. I always store my dirty clothes in a cotton shopping bag. Sure enough, all the undies were in there. I hate it when P’s right!

Clothed in soft pelt, laundry is not something P needs to worry about. Don’t get me wrong: She does have attire for special occasions. On a day to day basis, however, a quick shower and shake is all she needs.

But what am I to do without clean underwear? I considered my options.

When I was a kid at summer camp, kids would wear jeans without underpants. No thank you...

My mother once told me of a friend who, when lacking a clean replacement, turned his underpants inside out and put them on again. Yuck!

Someone once asked me and another backpacker what we considered our most important travel accessory. I said “elastic bands”. She said “disposable paper underwear”. I have never in my life seen such a thing and I have never looked at that friend in the same way. Having said that I did – and still do – have a perverse urge to ask her to feel a pair, just to dispel all the possible implications of using such a product in an emergency.

An Israeli businessman I met at Chabad in Beijing took it one step further. He visited my hotel room while I was hand-washing clothes in the sink. “What are you, an idiot? Prices are so cheap here I just throw my underpants away and buy new ones. Every week.” But my environmental sense won’t let me do that.

Hotels generally provide a laundry service. The problem is that they charge per item and it takes 24 hours until you get your stuff back. In backpacker areas, one can usually find a laundrette that charges by weight. That, too, can take some time.

I always bring a stash of laundry powder. That way I can wash a couple of things in the sink and hang them in the shower to dry. But even then, drying speed depends on what country you’re in and the season. Wet clothes take longer to dry on a humid tropical island than in an inland mountain area.

I once found my scented washing powder tampered with. P had invited some British traveller, named Paddington, back to the room. He had surreptitiously gone through our stuff. On finding the washing powder, he thought it was something else and tried to sniff it. Paddington made a run for it. We had to contact the cops who put out an APB for a sneezing bear with bleached nose smelling of Forest Pine and holding a UK passport. P has since learned that not all backpackers are savoury characters.

I always have to remember to wash my clothes when I might be in a place for more than 2 days. Sometimes I plan to stay long enough just so my laundry can dry. It has caused stress: P firmly believes it is legitimate to wait around to catch a plane or train, but not just for the sake of collecting laundry. Considering our different needs, I think that’s just selfish. (You watch her reaction if I wear the same clothes for a week!).

You see, it’s a problem to travel with wet laundry. For one thing, it weighs down your bag – not advisable if travelling with a backpack. (This is also not a problem that the prissy little P-rincess has to deal with, because I am the one who always shleps the bags). For another thing, damp clothes start to stink by the time you arrive at your next destination.

We stayed at one hostel equipped with a laundry and drying room on the roof. That was great. I washed my stuff in the handbasin and then hung it up - together with other people’s g-strings and lacy bits (I like to think they belonged to those 18 year old Swedish girls in room 330) - and voila ! Next morning it was dry.

I hand-laundered at one Beijing hotel and after 3 days the stuff was still damp. I went to reception. “Do you have a drying room?” I asked, showing her a damp shirt. She shook her head. “How about an iron?”. I acted out an ironing motion. The attendant suddenly pulled an iron from beneath the counter. Guests checking in gave me quizzical looks as I stood there, filling in a requisition form while holding an iron and large ironing board. I took the equipment back to my room and ironed frantically to dry my clothes. P said it looked hilarious and she didn’t stop laughing about it for a week.

That was not, apparently, as amusing as the night we stayed in Louyang. Drying meant I needed some sort of ventilation. I spent half the night trying to hang my damp laundry on the ceiling air conditioning outlet. To reach the outlet I put a chair on top of a table and climbed up; P was watching, and her hysterical snorting (she does that sometimes when she tries not to laugh) almost knocked me off balance.

“What’s that smell? Is that Forest Pine?!” P is yelling at me from the bedroom. That Koala has a seriously refined sense of smell. But I have to wash my clothes. I absolutely refuse to wear dirty underpants.

Well. Maybe this once.

"Kids Are Our Future" or "China, The Ultimate Katamon Solution"

The language instructor’s voice calmly came to me through my MP3 headphones.
“Please translate: Ni Jali Yo Jige Shou Har?”
“How many children are there in your family?” I responded aloud.

I was suddenly struck by an anomaly. The Mandarin language has separate words referring to older and younger siblings. It’s very precise that way. Which is rather interesting because, since 1979, it has been virtually illegal for Chinese citizens to have more than one child.

Although not new to me, Penelope was horrified when she found this out from a young Chinese woman we met. Like us humans, female koalas have one offspring at a time. Although I have avoided the topic with her, my impression is that she has aspirations in this regard. P fell into the woman’s arms, and I excused myself to give them a moment of privacy.

Communist China instituted its One Child Policy due to the country’s burgeoning population. Sounds intense. And in truth, it is.

The logic is sound: with a large populace living in poverty, standards of living will increase when there are less family dependents.

But the policy entails a myriad of problems.

Firstly, you’d think having kids is a human right, not a matter for government intrusion. After all, along with food and shelter, reproduction is a basic human need.

Chinese culture has a long tradition of extended families. Today, the burden of caring for the elder generation is falling on individuals instead of being shared between siblings. The policy reduces the number of dependents relying on the parents, but it increases the burden of dependency on children.

For this and other reasons, we were told, Chinese parents generally prefer that their one allotted child be male. Stories abound of girls being "disposed of" after birth. Many female births, apparently, are simply not registered with the authorities. I have even heard stories of factories and sweatshops in the country's south where "invisible" women work under awful conditions, because these are the only places they can find employment.

The preference for sons has ostensibly resulted in a lack of potential wives (western women – this could be your chance!). I discussed this over a game of pool with some Chinese backpackers staying at my hostel. They were very congenial and spoke quite good English. During the game some pretty, young women – all hotel staff - came to flirt. They focussed on the westerners. I asked one of my pool partners if he resented it. His face turned serious. "Well, what do you expect. It's not easy for us. There is big competition here for Chinese girls. It's not nice for us to see foreign men coming in and marrying them. It puts more pressure on us". There was a certain despair in his voice and it disturbed me. Then again, in a country of more than 1,300,000,000 people, you would think that it’s still a pretty big market out there.

There are some exceptions to the One Child Policy. For instance, two single children who marry can have two children of their own. In rural areas, enforcement seems to be more lax.

Today, in China's new capitalist economy, having more than one child is less frowned upon, but it comes at a price: A fixed financial penalty can be paid to register each child above the permitted quota. P and I were told by the Chinese wife of a Jewish man we met that fertility treatment has become popular because twins are not subject to a fine.

The State – as an institution - governs relations between people in society. To what extent can it then intrude on people’s private lives? This is clearly an existential question.

How fickle is fate that I was born elsewhere, and that I live in a country that protects something that China prohibits.

Scary.

The Maturing Power of Tea

After a hard day's touring we returned to our room at the hostel to rest. Pretty soon Penelope dozed on the shelf above the bed, as koalas often do. I put on some shoes and slipped out the door, heading for the hostel bar.

As I wandered down the corridor I was hit by the smoke, noise and smell of beer. Young folk with scraggly hair, torn T-shirts and dirty cargo pants were just hanging out. I expect most mature people would have been put off by the scene. Not me. I approached a couple of young guys at a table: “Mind of I join you?” Everyone smiled and made room for me. Within minutes I had melded into the group and it felt great. Everyone chatted easily, swapping stories and giving travel advice.

A young blonde woman named Juliette came and sat next to me, smiling. We were soon engrossed in conversation. It didn’t take long for her to tell me, with a sparkle in her eye, that Brett, the guy she was travelling with, was her cousin. She was 23 years old and apparently wanted me to know she was available. She assumed I was about 30. Well, I am not about 30 and I felt like a spy from the world of grown-ups. At once flattered and perturbed, I declined her offer to buy me a beer and fought the instinct to protest against her chain-smoking.

I continued the conversation however, wanting to integrate with a younger generation, and in doing so to learn more about my own values. Her naive attitude towards travel and the world engendered in me a desire to embrace her as a daughter and protect her. On the other hand, I understood how important travel is for her maturing process.

“Have you been to a Chinese tea ceremony yet?” she asked. Warning bells went off in my head. Tea houses are common here, but tea ceremonies are well known scams.

“Do you mean a Tea House? Yes, I have been to one" I replied. "How about you?”

“No, I mean a ceremony. Brett and I were invited to watch one. They took us to this special tearoom and did all this mumbo jumbo”. My lawyer’s sense perked up and I had to interrupt.

“Did you get any photos of the 'ceremony'?” I hoped against hope that Juliette had collected some incriminating evidence of the scam, although I was sure that the perpetrators would be careful to avoid identification.

“Oh no! Photos aren’t allowed ‘coz it’s a secret ceremony”.

I felt a jab in my stomach, knowing what was coming next.
She continued. “When it was finished, they told us it cost money to watch. We had no idea. It was very uncomfortable. We had to pay to leave.”
I asked Juliette a dozen questions about how they was approached, where it took place, the people involved, whether they felt in danger. She was very philosophical about it all.
“Nothing you can do, and anyway, it wasn’t much money. For both of us, Brett and me, it only came out to 42 pounds sterling.”

I gulped. 42 pounds! How naive could one be? (Consider dear reader that for some locals, that represents one month’s income).

I tried to take out the sting from their experience. “Ah well, you’ll be more careful next time. At least you weren’t hurt”. My consoling comments were superfluous; Juliette still believed she had been lucky to be made privy to a genuine, secret ceremony.

I looked around at the others in the bar. Most were young people travelling for extended periods. Lovely wide eyed innocents, first time away from home, seeing the big wide world. Each one a prime target for shysters. And with each knock they receive they will become better equipped to handle the world.

I felt protective of them all and wondered whether that feeling said something more about their naiveté or about my own adult disillusionment.

Stay tuned

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I am dedicating this blog to a woman I love very much. A person full of love, optimism and courage who was always there to help me outgrow my own naivites, but who also knew this required that I to go through the school of hard knocks. Sandy passed on to a better place yesterday morning. For all her vast experience in life, she approached everything with the passion of a wide-eyed innocent. And for that I will always love and respect her. Yhi Zichra baruch

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