The Land of China, Part 2

In Shanghai, we met the program's coordinator, responsible for matching volunteers to schools. This guy (I don't remember his name, but let's call him Scott) couldn't have been older than thirty at most, but he spoke fluent Mandarin, which was apparently enough of a qualification. Scott told us the name of the school where we would be working, placed us in a van with two other volunteers, and instructed us to call him in the event of an emergency. And with that, we were off to the town of Yangzhou, several hours away.

Yangzhou is famous for its fried rice - not at all a bad claim to have. My meals in China were unpredictable to say the least, but Yangzhou Fried Rice was consistently excellent. It was also one of the only dish I learned to order in Mandarin.

On the four-hour trip, we got to know our fellow volunteers. One was a recently divorced 40-something British woman named Lisa (I think) - a high school teacher looking for an adventure following her recent split from her husband. The other was an American of around the same age, whom I'll call Craig. Craig wasn't a bad guy exactly, but he was a big doofus. In many ways, he embodied the  stereotype of the loud American tourist - mispronouncing words with alarming regularity, speaking in loud, abrasive English, and telling everyone who would listen that he was from Washington, D.C., "my nation's capital!" (It turned out he was actually from Columbia, Maryland, which is no more D.C. than Baltimore.)

This was not a person I would have chosen to spend time with back home, but since Craig and I were the only guys, we became room mates by default. Once we arrived at the school (more on that later), his first act was to empty a giant duffel bag - one of the five he had brought along with him - onto his bed. It was full of baseball cards and candy.

"These are to give to the children!" he explained, upon seeing my incredulous stare.
"What children?"
"The children of Yangzhou!" He pronounced it "Young Jew," long after we had heard the city's name correctly pronounced, multiple times, as "Yong - Jo."
"You mean, the children at the school?"
"No! The children on the street! I'm going to bring these with me when we go out, and when we see a little kid, I'm going say 'Nee How!!' This is a present from America!"

He was serious too. In any circumstances, it is impossible for a white guy to keep a low profile while walking the streets of Yangzhou. Despite its substantial size and general pleasantness, it tends not to be a popular destination for western tourists. But it was extra impossible to blend in with Craig at my side.

"Neeeee How!" he barked to one frightened child after another, waving his hand in their faces as though they were all deaf, before depositing a 2001 Topps Derek Jeter in their little hands. "We love your country!"

The worst part was that I didn't have any choice but to associate with this guy. There were only four of us, and to announce that I was going to split from the group to do my own thing during our down time was tantamount to an open declaration of disdain. So instead, I tried to put on a happy face as I explored this new city with the self-appointed ambassador from the metropolis of Columbia, Maryland.

And then there was the school itself. I hadn't heard of Yangzhou before volunteering to teach, but I was pleased when I heard I would be stationed in a large city. During the evenings, I assumed I would cruise the streets, check out the bar scene, maybe find the local expat community. So I was surprised, needless to say, when the van pulled up in front of an imposing compound, complete with guard towers and fence covered in barbed wire. It was ten miles from town.

"Don't worry!" the school's volunteer liaison assured us, "You can call cab to take you to city. Only twenty minute away." We were also encouraged to return by 10:30 PM, at which point the school's gate closed for the night.

It proved to be too much to hope that our summer POW camp at least had nice accommodations. Our rooms were dirty - there was no getting around it. They were sparsely furnished, with only two small cots. I remember what looked like an antique witch's broom propped up in the corner. Worst of all, the room had no air conditioning - a large problem when the temperature regularly tops one hundred degrees. I had come to China expecting adventure, and was more than willing to put up with rustic living conditions. But I hadn't signed up for a Gulag either.

I've been looking on Google Maps for the school, but I don't remember what it was called or exactly where it is. This is a school outside Yangzhou. It might be school where we stayed for a night before our abrupt dismissal. Kind of intimidating, although the towers appear to be made out of an appealing cherry-finished wood. 

I'll say this for Craig - he wasn't passive and he wasn't going to accept the situation. So he complained - firmly and maybe a little rudely, although given the the situation, I could hardly blame him.

And in response to his complaints, the school's liaison "fired" us on the spot. By complaining, we had shown disloyalty, he reasoned, and he obviously couldn't trust us. We would be allowed to stay the night, but would be escorted off the grounds of the compound first thing in the morning.

Sure enough, a woman knocked on our door at 7:00 AM the following morning. (I remember that, for unclear reasons, she was carrying a parasol.) And she watched as the four of us - Craig, struggling to wrangle his five duffel bags - made our way to the gate.