jeff yen

I’m coming up on 30 days in China — I know this, because I’m about to go to Hong Kong on my monthly visa pilgrimage — and one thing I’ve learned about myself, is that I can get used to much more than I originally thought. I have no doubt that many aspects of my life here would be strange, and probably more than a little gross, to almost everyone I know back in the States — including myself, were it not for the last few weeks.

For instance, I haven’t used (nor seen) a western style toilet in about 3 weeks, ever since the one toilet here was plugged one too many times (not my fault, honest). The cleaning staff, sick of having to fix it without a plunger, took the logical step of padlocking the stall shut.

One might wonder why they didn’t just go buy a plunger, but this would be missing the essentially Chinese nature of this solution: it’s immediately effective, simple, free, saves you hassle down the road, and doesn’t involve going across the street to the supermarket. The fact that others may be inconvenienced can be dealt with later, if and when they complain.

As far as the process itself goes, I’ll admit there’s a certain visceral quality to using a squat toilet as opposed to a Western style toilet. With a little balance, practice, and good aim, you eventually start hitting the poop flap dead-on. There’s a gratifying little “thwap” sound, the plastic cover springs back into place, and you don’t have a turd staring back at you for the rest of your visit, which can only be considered a plus.

The standard of hygiene in kitchens here is undeniably lower than what I was used to in the US, even considering the fairly lackluster way I took care of mine. I haven’t actually seen any physical repercussions yet, and oddly enough I don’t really expect to. Lately, most of my meals have been home-cooked in Jing Jing’s apartment — we’ve started a you-cook-one, I-cook-one rotation — and this has given me an up close and personal look at how typical (lower?) middle-class kitchens operate in Wuhan.

It’s been an interesting experience, and there are a few things that I’ve decided absolutely had to change, but it’s still an incredibly remote departure from what I’m used to.

Most of the things I normally identify with a kitchen are nowhere in evidence here; there’s no fridge, freezer, microwave, dishwasher, hot-water tap, disposal, stove, or oven. There’s one cutting board and one knife, neither of which are typically scrubbed between cutting meat, fish, and vegetables (unless I’m doing the cutting, anyway). Initially, there weren’t even any cups, bowls, or plates, but Man Ni and I fixed that with a trip to the local department store.

All of the cooking (aside from the rice cooker) is done with a flat-bottom wok on an electric hot plate, which is actually shockingly effective, and far more responsive than any gas or electric stove I’ve used before. It’s also surprisingly versatile; with this setup we’ve made braised pork, fried fish, oatmeal, soups, noodles (fried and in soup), fried rice, sweet potato fries,  omelets, and a huge variety of Chinese dishes that in English essentially just become different kinds of stir-fry, which glosses over the bewildering array of techniques I’ve already seen used.

Not having a fridge means that we’re often sniffing leftovers, seeing if they’re still okay to eat. One point of contention between me and Jing Jing is our individual interpretation of when something’s gone bad. We spent about twenty minutes one night chopping, frying, braising, and stewing before she would admit, much to my relief, that the pork spareribs we were trying to cook had long passed the point of edibility.

It eventually struck me that this, really, is “greener,” more sustainable living. We talk about triple-paned windows, recirculating air conditioning, and solar water heaters, but in the end, for most of the world what it really comes down to is doing without. That essentially means you live closer to the outdoors; your food spoils faster, your home is colder in the winter and hotter in the summer, and the timing of your showers often depends as much on the schedule of the water heater as your own. It also means you’ll see more poo, eat wilted greens, and start making distinctions between “spoiled” and “too spoiled to eat.”

Despite all this, or perhaps even because of it, I haven’t had a single regret about coming here. Yes, there have been difficulties; poop and rotten food aside, there are my visa hassles, the sub-zero weather, social drama, and of course I miss my family and friends Stateside.

But there are always compensations.

It might be two degrees below, but the scarf Tan Yin gave me keeps my ears and neck warm. I have to board a train or flight to Shenzhen every month to step across the Hong Kong border for my exit/entry stamp, but this gives me a chance to connect — for the first time, really — with an enormous extended family I barely even knew existed. I may struggle with the occasional social difficulty, but through it all Jing Jing and Yang Guang are there to knock me back on track. And I may feel homesick once in a while, but there’s the sure knowledge that my friends and family in the U.S. will always be my friends and family.

But my god, do I want a carne asada burrito.

I was up and about at 4am this morning. Not because I had anything in particular to do — my contracts seem like they’re either dormant or complete, and my flight to Hong Kong isn’t until 3pm — but because, for the first time during the four and a half months I’ve spent in China, I was actually afraid for my life.

Having been in China for this long, I have developed a slightly higher tolerance for risk than before. This took some time, and started innocuously enough. Staying at a youth hostel instead of a Marriott… ooh! Buying a hard sleeper train ticket instead of a soft sleeper… goodness!

Eventually I moved on to more moderate risks; say, crossing the street in Shanghai, where traffic signals are often taken as suggestions rather than actual rules, or having my breakfast scooped out of a wooden bucket by the side of the road by someone whose appearance could fairly be described as hag-like.

Finally, one proceeds to the final stages of risk adoption. This would involve things like crossing the street in Wuhan where, unlike Shanghai, everyone driving a motorized vehicle is determined to leave a tire track across the heel of your shoe. You also might, as I did in Fenghuang, conclude that the shady-looking guy at the bus stop who essentially says “Hey, you look like a wealthy out-of-towner. I know a good guesthouse; hop on the back of my scooter, and let me drive you through two miles of unlit, winding alleyways in the middle of the night to a nondescript doorway” has made some fairly persuasive arguments.

I’ve been through all of this and more without really having had my fear response triggered; even what I jokingly described as my crucible — having to use a squat toilet — was more of an annoyance than anything else.

But last night, the reason I got up at 4am and went down to the hostel common area to sleep, walked into my room.

Let’s call him Gigantor. Or, since I think he’s French, let’s call him Gigantois.

He is Caucasian, weighs somewhere in the vicinity of 300 pounds, and was accompanied by two friends. They were pushing even the fairly loose boundaries of common courtesy observed in China, talking, farting, and laughing at full volume at 3am, in a room where 3 people were already asleep, jumping on bunks and throwing their dirty clothes around the room as they stripped for bed. This in itself was annoying, but soon enough I knew they’d settle in for bed and I could get back to sleep.

Then, to my horror, my Gigantois started to climb up to the bunk directly above me. The whole structure leaned perilously over, then settled back with an ominous groan as he flopped over the railing into bed.

Given the questionable sturdiness of the hostel beds, I was already pretty worried. Couple that with the fact that, once established, Gigantois wouldn’t stop moving around. I won’t wonder why; in fact, I am actively trying to block any possibilities from my mind in order to protect the fragile shreds of sanity that still exist.

In the end, after suffering through a series of visions of being crushed by 400 pounds of bedding, gelatinous Frenchman, and body odor (trust me, it was a physical entity where he was concerned), I decided that this time — finally — China had me beat.

When I explained to Yu Fei, at the front desk, why I was up so early, he knew who I was talking about; he was just surprised it took me this long to come downstairs.

I now have 3 phone numbers, all of which have a disturbingly incestual relationship. This is by necessity, since I live in China, still have friends, family, and colleagues in the US who might need to get ahold of me, and want to make things as easy as possible for everyone involved (except me, apparently).

So I have:
1) A China Mobile cell phone number (China).
2) A SkypeIn number (US).
3) A Google Voice number (US).

When someone calls my Chinese cell phone, it rings. Yes, just like a normal cell phone. It doesn’t play the Asian Riff, or “Chopsticks,” or summon a dragon to deliver a message from my ancestors, it just plays the default Nokia ring tone.

Problem number one, of course, is that anyone calling this phone from the US is going to get hit with all kinds of charges.

Hence the SkypeIn number, which is a local US number. It has two purposes: when I’m signed into Skype, anyone calling the number will ring my PC, which I can then pick up and talk to them for free; and when I’m offline, it will automatically forward to my Chinese cell phone, which I can then pick up and talk to them for 2.8 cents a minute.

Not bad, and one would think my problems end here. Naturally, this is not the case.

Enter problem number two, which is actually twofold: my Chinese cell phone has no voicemail service (I actually don’t know if any Chinese cell phones do), and Skype’s voicemail does not work properly, specifically in that it does not work.

So I also have a Google Voice number, which is also local to the US. The only purpose this number has, is to forward calls to my Skype number… which in turn forwards calls to my PC or Chinese cell phone. Then, if I don’t pick up, either because I’m busy or because you dweebs forgot how to work out the time difference and tried to call me at 4am again, Google’s voicemail will pick up.

I’m just a little confused why all these VoIP companies can’t get their shit together. Skype has been in the business for ages, and has by far the most robust feature set. Yet they can’t get voicemail to work right; regardless of what settings you change in your control panel, nothing actually gets controlled, and nobody gets their voicemail recorded. Google Voice is fairly new, discounting its history as GrandCentral, and is (prematurely) being hailed as a “Skype-killer,” yet Google has decided to nix the international call forwarding option, for reasons unknown. And knowing Google’s history of eternally beta-state software, I’m not holding out hope that the feature will be added back any time soon.

I hate jumping through hoops, especially unnecessary ones. This does beg the question why I decided to move to China, where the bureaucracy is even more impenetrable and labyrinthine than the US, but that’s human nature for you.

Working on posts that are actually related to stuff going on here in China, but, you know. I’m lazy.

The PA crackled to life on China Airlines Flight CA1333, service from Beijing to Wuhan, jarring me out of my half-sleep. The flight attendant cleared her throat softly, then said in her clipped, nasal voice:

“Ladies and gentlemen, we have just been informed that because of some technical difficulties, we’ll be turning around and heading back to Beijing airport.”

Click.

Trying to suppress the anxieties that tend to arise when the words “technical difficulties” are applied to an airplane in which I’m currently airborne, I looked around at my fellow passengers to gauge their reaction.

One woman, staring open-mouthed into the middle distance, almost seemed on the verge of panic; but then, she barked a scornful laugh and settled into her chair for a nap. The elderly man across from me glanced up briefly from his paper when the announcement started, but went back to reading as soon as he realized its import. Everyone else was snoozing.

Either these people had the most monumental self-discipline of any population on Earth, or this was not a wholly uncommon occurrence. In any event, I realized they had it right; whether or not it was serious, I had no control over the outcome anyway. Either I would arrive at Wuhan a few hours later than expected, or I would die in an enormous fireball.

I went back to sleep.

That afternoon, following a great deal of sitting in Beijing airport’s terminal 3, I found myself in another plane, descending toward Wuhan’s Tianhe airport through distressingly yellow cloud cover. Nor was the city an especially welcoming sight once we descended below the clouds. It was gloomily lit in the late afternoon, with a pall of smog and clouds clinging to clusters of gritty-looking buildings, in turn huddled around a dark river that wound its way through the city like an oil slick.

Even so, a sense of celebration filled me as the wheels touched the tarmac, and I stepped off the plane with the strangest feeling of homecoming.

It seemed fitting that the first person I recognized on my return trip to Wuhan was the first friend I made here; Molly, perched on a barstool at the hostel’s front desk, did a double take as I walked up to the front step, and bolted out through the double doors to hug me. XiXi wasn’t far behind, and from there on it was something of a blur of faces, both familiar and unfamiliar.

After a few hours of celebrating, and one or two too many beers, I gave up the fight against jetlag and turned in at around 9pm. The party continued without me; I heard the next day that Jing Jing walked in around midnight, looked around, and just said, “那个人呢？”, or “So? Where is he?”

In a conversation I had with my friend’s husband yesterday, he grilled me about my education growing up. When we got to the part where I chose to attend UC San Diego instead of Berkeley or UCLA, he was intrigued. He wondered whether, at my high school reunions, wouldn’t I feel a sense of inferiority compared to my classmates who went on to places like Harvard, Yale, Princeton, or Stanford? Wouldn’t I be envious of their houses, cars, and so on?

I thought for a moment, and then repeated a sentiment someone related to me a while ago: You have to define your own measures for success. I haven’t much interest in the trappings of luxury, and for now I am far more interested in pursuing other things; friendships, relationships, and — for lack of a better word — adventure.

So now, even though I am by nearly any measure a vagrant, I am happier than I have been in a long time. I feel like I’ve distilled the the things I need down to the bare minimum — indeed, my worldly possessions now fit in one suitcase and one backpack, with room to spare — and this allows me to see the things I want more clearly.

At any event, the last few days have been so full of activity — things I need to arrange, work I need to do, people I need to spend time with — that not only have I not had time to write, what I do write is scattered, sloppy, and essentially just me drooling words onto a screen.

So. Enjoy that mental image. Better posts will be coming once I get over my jetlag and the “welcome back” fervor starts dying down.

My return to China is pretty well in hand; I’m settled in and looking towards the future, along with getting my ass kicked trying to set things up here and finish up a project at the same time. So you can imagine how little I need corporate stupidity adding to my daily stresses. It’s a shame that my first post after coming back is a whiny angry one (others are in the works), but I’m in need of some catharsis after dealing with the fact that Bank of America is fucking retarded.

This should probably come as no surprise to anyone who’s used their services, but here’s my experience so far.

I decided I should get a BofA account, because they have a partnership with China Construction Bank, allowing fee-free withdrawals from their ATMs. The other ‘best’ offer I had was a 1% charge on any overseas withdrawal from my credit union, which isn’t bad, but since I pay enough taxes as it is to public entities, I wasn’t relishing the prospect of paying an additional tax to my bank on all the money I wanted to spend in China.

I opened a Bank of America business checking account first, because they offered fee-free services with only one caveat — you had to use their debit card once a month for a purchase to avoid penalty fees. That in itself is a useless, arbitrary requirement, but whatever. I can always send some Amazon tchotchkes as gifts to people back in the U.S. once a month.

Then I find out that Bank of America, in their infinite wisdom, does not allow you to electronically transfer funds from outside banks into a business account.

What?

This means I’m not allowed to move money from my other checking or savings accounts into my Bank of America business checking account… just because it’s labelled as a ‘business’ account. This makes a lot of sense, right? Because everyone knows that no business would ever want the ease and convenience of electronically moving around in this day and age.

I mean come on, I know I always insist my clients pay me in gold nuggets, then I melt them into bricks and walk them down to the bank myself. Why deal with the hassle and risk of clicking a few buttons and having money move seamlessly from one place to another? Surely that wouldn’t be business friendly at all.

My blood pressure is already rising. But whatever. In the end, the situation is that I need to open a consumer account. So I discover if you open their lowest-tier checking account via their website, they don’t charge you any fees, and you get a fee-free, no-minimum account. Fine. I open the personal account, and close the business account.

After setting up the online banking and link my credit union checking account, I attempt to transfer $3,000 into my Bank of America account. Should be easy, right?

Wrong.

Now the website tells me that for any transfer over $1,000, I need something called “SafePass.” This is some bullshit douchebag “service” they invented as an ill-conceived extra security layer.

Essentially, you have two options:

1) Pay $20 and get a card (wow, everyone knows the most secure thing possible is to have a physical object to carry around with you in your wallet) that you can click and get an ultra-secret-super-awesome pass code to access premium Bank of America services like, I dunno, moving your own money around.

2) Add a cell phone number to which they can send a text message that contains these same super awesome passcodes, which allow you the same access.

Setting aside for the moment just how mind-blowingly inept and arbitrary this restriction is — why make me jump through hoops to move money into your bank – why, in the name of God, don’t you allow these magical numbers to be sent directly to the email addresses linked to my account? I don’t have a US cell phone anymore, and thanks to your technological wizardry, your SMS system doesn’t work with my Google Voice number. And why is getting a fucking text message on my phone any more secure than the deposit/withdrawal confirmation I already went through to link my bank account?

So I’m stuck moving my money $1,000 at a time into my own account. Good job, morons.

Fuck you, Bank of America. I moved $1,000 into my account to use for the time being, but as soon as I find a viable alternative to your monumental stupidity, I’m closing my account and taking my business elsewhere.