China: A New Perspective

Let’s imagine a scene together: 100 college students are lined up in six slightly-curved lines, focused in on one black man with a prominent jerry curl. All 100 are dressed alike — in heavy woolen uniforms of orange, white and black, with black sparkly plumes jutting out of their identical hats. They are all holding instruments, ranging from relatively small to monstrous, and the bouncing jerry curl is leading them in a rousing rendition of Kelly Clarkson’s “Since U Been Gone.”

Okay, now that you’ve imagined a marching band playing a pop song in concert formation, let’s add in location: Picture all of this happening on the Great Wall of China.

Didn’t see that one coming, did you?

Well, neither did I.

When I first learned that my college marching band was heading to China for its biennial international performance tour, I had imagined a far different scene. I thought perhaps we’d just play in a town square, or parade down a popular street in order to introduce the concept of the marching band to Asia. Then again, I should have known better. This, after all, was the Ohio Northern University Marching Band — “The Star of Northwest Ohio” — lead by our fearless leader, Dr. Charles Bates. This was the band that had, two years earlier, serenaded an Italian audience with Queen’s “Bohemian Rhapsody” from the steps of a cathedral on the Amalfi Coast. Why wouldn’t I next be crashing my cymbals to a pop song on the Great Wall?

The Great Wall thing I should have expected. But the thing I could not have anticipated was exactly what it would mean to be a marching band member visiting China. Forget all normal instances of culture shock — traveling as part of the ONUMB through China took the expected shock of entering into a foreign culture and magnified it; it made everything extra shocking, surreal, and, sometimes, funny.

A Walking, Talking Tourist Attraction

During our tour to Italy two years previously, the locals had been mildly interested in listening to us. They leaned against pillars in their Italian sunglasses while smoking their Italian cigarettes, and applauded in all the expected places. The Chinese, however, were not nearly as subtle with their interest. In China, we became a tourist attraction ourselves. The tables — and the telephoto camera lenses — were turned on us, and it was really hard not to notice and feel mildly uncomfortable at all times.

When traveling in a large group — especially a large group that also happens to be on an “educational tour” — you always hear the same old mantras over and over: Stick together. Don’t do anything stupid. Be inconspicuous (i.e. let’s pretend we’re not really American tourists). Well, the first part is easy enough; when you and 30 others are following a neon green sign held aloft by a tiny Chinese tour guide into a tiny Chinese jade factory, it’s not too difficult to stick together. But the rest of it? How about you try to be inconspicuous and not look like an idiot while following said tiny Chinese woman with the neon green sign into the jade factory. Oh yeah, and did I mention that we’re all dressed identically in swooshy travel uniforms? Real inconspicuous.

I think it was on our second day in Shanghai, before one of our performances, that Fearless Leader Bates decided he wanted a picture of the entire band — in uniform — at the Bund, the river-side area with the Shanghai skyline as its backdrop. It was chilly and foggy down by the river in the morning (or perhaps that was just some low-hanging smog?), and we were all huddled close. None were huddled closer than the baton twirlers, however, who were clad in short, white, sequined skirts and flesh-colored tights. As we were lining up for our photo, one curious and forward Chinese woman from the crowd (because we always attracted some sort of crowd) snuck up behind a twirler, lifted up the back of her skirt, and proceeded to point and giggle. Yes, giggle. I would have felt mortified on the twirler’s behalf if it hadn’t been so unexpected, and, therefore, funny. Still, I felt slightly underprepared for such attention, and was infinitely thankful for my suspenders and heavy pants.

Being part of the focus on outings, however, made me realize a few things. I began to look at my fellow band members — pulling offensive squinty eyes and guffawing over using chopsticks — through new eyes. Not only was I learning that many of my assumptions about China and its people were skewed, but I was also realizing that many of their assumptions about us were probably dead on.

Culturally Aware

After a few group outings in which we were forced to really notice the locals due to them noticing us, I became acutely aware of the fact that we were just feeding into every bad cliché of the “American college kids go abroad” stereotype. We were loud, we were rude, and we were blissfully ignorant (or perhaps just indifferent) of both. I think there’s probably a reason such stereotypes persist. We wanted those pink deep sea pearls to take home to Mom as a gift, and we wanted them hand-wrapped right now. We wanted that mini jade carving of Buddha, but we wanted to haggle to get the best price, even if that meant insulting the vendor.

The language barrier probably helped us seem less barbaric than many of us were acting. In fact, a lot of the Chinese vendors on the street got a kick out of us and our innate American-ness. Before setting foot off the tour bus that ferried us from the airport to our first hotel in Shanghai, we were taught two essential phrases: “Xiexie” (pronounced “sheh-sheh”), for “thank you”; and “bu yao” (said “boo yauw”), meaning, essentially, “Do not want.” The latter was to be used whenever a local vendor came up and offered us “CDDVDwatch, special price for you!” in broken English on the street. This happened at least every 20 paces, and my roommate, tiny little blonde thing that she is, eventually just started screeching “BU YAO!” at every Chinese person who looked sideways at her. Some of them responded by laughing at her, others by snapping photos.

Still others, though, almost seemed offended when we tried to butcher our way through their language in order to refuse their goods and services. At one point, I ended up arguing with a vendor over a kitschy “I Climbed The Great Wall” T-shirt. I wanted a yellow shirt. She wanted to sell me a size XL. When I told her, “Bu yao, xiexie” and turned to leave, she began yelling at me in rapid Chinese, and trying to force smaller, different colored T-shirts into my hands. I’m almost positive she called me fat at least once. But she was so little, and so irate, that I ended up buying a shirt anyway.

It was armed with our essential phrases, bargaining know-how, and travel rolls of toilet paper for those infamous public squat-pots that we were eventually loosed into the public between group outings and performances at sacred Chinese venues (we also played some Kelly Clarkson within temple walls). On these occasions, we used our learned American habits (you know, sporting our North Face proudly, consuming far too much alcohol in public, that sort of thing) and our assumptions about Chinese culture, however misguided they were, to explore — and get lost — on our own terms.

Lost and Found in Translation

On a free, relatively sunny afternoon in Shanghai, a group of us decided to split two taxis and go to the Oriental Pearl TV tower (think like the CN Tower in Toronto, only with cooler architecture). We asked the hotel concierge to write out our destination on hotel business cards to give to the taxi drivers (a really good idea, since the majority of taxi drivers in China speak little to no English at all, and definitely don’t read it), and then got into our cabs. But our cabs got separated in the choking Shanghai traffic, and I ended up at the tower with my roommate and boyfriend at the time. We had no other choice but to sit down and wait, hoping to eventually catch up with the rest of our group.

We became a point of interest for passers-by. An old Chinese man with very few teeth sat down next to my boyfriend, smiling and saying one-word phrases in English. He seemed to like my boyfriend’s hat. We deduced that the man must have fought in some sort of war, and that’s where he picked up his favorite English phrases: “Yes,” “No,” and “Army.”

Soon after, a young Chinese woman, clearly a tourist in the city herself, caught my attention and asked me — purely through gesture — to take a photo of her in front of the tower. Afterward, she tried to thank me both in rapid Chinese and then by typing spiky Chinese characters into her phone. I replied with the only phrase I felt comfortable using – “Dui bu chi, wo bu dong,” or, “I’m sorry, I don’t understand” – and eventually she gave up and dug in her purse, producing five tiny mandarin oranges. These she forced into my hands, and then wandered away. Suffice it to say, fruit is the strangest “thank you” I think I’ve ever received. I shared the oranges with my roommate, boyfriend, and the old Chinese man, who had sidled up uncomfortably close to both of them and was rattling off his “yes”es and “no”s like a champ.

And as the unlikely group of us sat and ate the tiny mandarins, watching the congested Shanghai traffic crawl on by, I had to smile. Here I was in a country that I knew nothing about — even less than I’d originally thought, in fact – and yet I was making connections. Connections with my fellow travelers in the form of stories we’d tell later, and connections to complete strangers who didn’t speak the same language as me, and who had thanked me in citrus. In this instance, the language and culture divide didn’t seem to matter so much.

But, I would soon learn, not all failed communication was bound to leave me with such fuzzy feelings.

Not in Kansas Anymore

It was our last free night in Beijing, and a large group of us decided to go out and explore the Chinese nightlife. The destination was chosen from a guide book. The hotel business cards were written up. And four taxis were waiting at the ready. We were headed to a European nightclub called “The Spicy Banana” — which really should have been the first sign that our night would be something to talk about the next morning.

As it turned out, half of us never made it to the Spicy Banana. Miscommunication struck again, and two of the four cabs ended up, instead, outside the Hi-Way Disco. A quick conversation and a 20 yuan (roughly $3) cover charge later, and seven of us found ourselves inside the bumping techno club, packed wall-to-wall with young Chinese people. This definitely fell outside the realm of what we had been expecting. Scantily-clad bartenders lit the bar on fire and did pole dances in between the flames. Some Chinese guy dressed as Michael Jackson was doing magic tricks in the corner, and the DJ was wearing an Ohio State sweatshirt. We were the only Caucasians in the room, and it was difficult not to notice it.

I’ve visited other countries where men are aggressive — countries where they’ll cat-call and even grab at foreigners and find nothing wrong with it. But I never associated these types of men with China. And, in fact, from everything I’ve heard, most Chinese men aren’t very aggressive. But whether it was the alcohol, or the simple fact that we three American girls were so outnumbered at the Hi-Way Disco, I experienced an exception to my assumption about Chinese men.

Over the next couple of hours, as five of us decided to venture out onto the crowded dance floor again and again, I had the rather awkward and unpleasant experience of getting felt-up quite thoroughly by a few sweaty, intoxicated Chinese men. At first, my friends thought it was funny that, while they were paired up and dancing, I had a tall, drunk Chinese guy trying to shove his little Chairman Mao up my backside. But when drunkie tried to pull me off the dance floor with him, it wasn’t quite so amusing. My friends had some difficulty explaining to him that I didn’t want to be dance raped anymore, but eventually he got the picture and slunk away. In the end, I just had to laugh it all off and “go with it,” as one of my friends told me, finding a less drunk, and much less sweaty dance partner. He still didn’t speak any English, but at least his hands didn’t wander quite so much.

The Bigger Picture

If I think about it, The Hi-Way Disco was really the epitome of my Chinese experience — it, like most other things, was so far from what I had expected to find in China that it made me rethink everything I thought I knew about the place. I had to recalibrate my assumptions of the country after my brief visit, and acknowledge that there are always, always exceptions to the rules.

So now when I look back on crashing my cymbals on the Great Wall of China, I do it through different eyes. Yes, I was an American, and yes, that was China. But now I can see a little better where I fit into the bigger picture. China is both everything and nothing I expected at the same time. It’s a place where the sightseer can become the sight to be seen. It’s a place where stereotypes are both enforced and broken in a single setting. It’s a place where getting lost can find you in memorable situations. And it’s a place where a language barrier can either impede communication, or enhance a deeper understanding.

But that’s one of the best things about travel — going somewhere you thought you had figured out, only to realize that you’ve had it all wrong. Or at least mostly wrong. Because then you get to discover unexpected things that lead you to the kinds of stories that include crashing cymbals on the Great Wall, receiving oranges as a sign of gratitude, and getting really up close and personal with the locals. And who doesn’t want that?