Getting tickets to Harbin was an adventure in itself. I talked to my tutor, and she called around, presumably to a couple booking agencies. I went to the hotel/dorm ticket office, and the lady there also called her contacts. 买不了!, mai bu liao, “cannot be bought” they all said. I took one sweltering-sweaty walk over to the Nankai campus, and the same result. Tickets are available starting 10 days in advance of travel, and they must be bought in person. No internet, and though you can use a phone to reserve them, you have to go pick them up ASAP or have them delivered. So I took a super far (read: expensive) taxi ride to the same place we went to to get our tickets from Beijing to Guilin for the ten-day field trip. I figured Guilin is a tiny town that is popular in the summer, Harbin is a large city that is not. Surely they must be available. They were not.
Standing at that ticket counter, I changed directions. “Alright,” I’m thinking, “I was looking for tickets from Beijing to Harbin, which can be hard to find when you’re not in Beijing. What about from Tianjin?” I had been looking for tickets from Beijing because my friend was studying at Tsinghua University there, he just started Chinese this summer, and going to Tianjin would actually be somewhat out of the way. Nonetheless, I asked. And still none.
So I returned to the dorm and went through the motions again. Tutor, no. Dorm office no, Nankai no. Knowing that if you want something done right, you do it yourself, I decided I was done with this 2-day comedy of errors and got in a taxi. Again.
There was definitely fear as I rode toward my judgment, moon dollars ticking away with each passing kilometer. Could I not find train tickets? After nearly half a year cumulative in this country, could I not perform such a simple task? I had always told people that my Chinese was nowhere near fluent, but good enough that I could get around. Was this proof negative? The taxi pulled up. The shining new Tianjin Train Station greeted me. Last year it served only the high-speed trains from Beijing. A year before that it didn’t exist. And now, it was my only hope. I was not looking forward to calling Colin (my friend in Beijing) with “Hey, uhhhh… we can’t go to Harbin because I’m an idiot…” I walked inside and grabbed a spot in line. While waiting, I looked at the big board of trains. Instead of having a completely computerized screen they had some dot-point display. It displayed two trains at a time for 5-day stretches. I waited for any train to cycle through that went to Harbin. Soft sleepers, too expensive… standers, don’t think Colin would go for that… Aha! D177! Arriving just before 11pm, departing Tianjin at 2pm! Cash in hand, I commenced a serious box-out of potential line cutters. Young, old and infirm were powerless over this whitey’s determination to get two of those twenty remaining tickets. And a relatively short 20 minutes later, they were mine. I left the station, clutching my ¥562 worth of tickets. I checked them, placed them in my wallet, checked them again, got a crisp refreshing Coke, checked a third time, and then hailed a cab. It may sound silly, but I was on an adrenaline rush. And this is really why I spent so long relating this comparatively insignificant tale. The sense of accomplishment I felt after massive logjam that had been my previous search was incredible. It was like after landing a job, or finishing a massive paper you feel you really nailed. The walking-on-sunshine invincible feeling after a clutch sports victory. Simply put, a high.
And that was the hardest thing I had remaining on the program. The final wasn’t too difficult, and the grades that we just got back from the International Academic Programs office bore that out. (I am very pleased with my summer grade results.) We had a closing ceremony where we presented on our field trip, got our little certificates, and said our goodbyes to tutors and teachers. And later that night we had a closing party of our own, with most everyone in the program participating. It was outside, on a rare Tianjin night that was not too hot and not too muggy. Then the weekend came, and people dispersed. Many went to Beijing, many left early, I stayed behind, having nothing to do but wait for my friend. I packed, played mafia with other students and the teachers that lived in the dorm, watched movies, and read. Then on the 16th, all packed up, I headed to the train station with backpack over shoulders, Erhu over chest, duffel in one hand and suitcase in the other. I was quite the sight, once again playing the sweaty, overburdened whitey in a role I had become so familiar with by now.
I met Colin and the train station and we waited an hour or so for our train. We boarded, and then commenced a thoroughly passable nine hour ride of rummy, American music, and Futurama episodes.
And then later that night, we arrived in the glorious city of Harbin. It has a metro area of 4.5 million people, but chances are you haven’t heard of it. It’s famous throughout Asia for its Ice Lantern festival and Snow Festival, and the elaborate works of art on display during each. As I alluded to last post however, it is mostly dead in the summer. I suppose it’s because there’s not much to do, but for starters the weather was positively awesome at around 25 degrees Celsius, and it only rained a little more than in Tianjin. I thought it was a pretty decent place to spend 5 days. We went to a Jewish museum that was formerly the premier Harbin synagogue, (Harbin had 20,000+ Jews living in it during the 1920s) as well as a provincial museum which had some cheap displays on natural history. The best museum we went to however was the Unit 731 Germ Warfare base. During what for us was World War II, and during the latter half of the Japanese invasion of China in the 1930s and 40s, a covert chemical and biological warfare testing station was created. Running such ghastly tests as “How long will this man survive frozen in ice?” and “What if we give this captive syphilis and don’t treat it?” the entire building is a monument to the horrors that took place within the compound. It is one of many, examples of a cruel treatment in the past and just one reason that the average Chinese is, at the very best, suspicious of the Japanese. As we walked through the exhibits with photos of procedures, as well as implements and dioramas, the older members of the Chinese tour group with us would gasp with each new horror.
Jewish Museum general tribute to Jews
Death certificates at 731 museum
The coolest thing however, was the tigers.
We went to a Tiger Reserve. Naturally, the purpose of the reserve was some ludicrous thing such as preparing the tigers for their eventual release into the wild, but this was a straight-up tourist attraction with the fattest felines you ever did see. Neither the government nor the reserve administration had any interest in letting go of the tigers that were laying golden kuai. Our options were to go on a regular Greyhound-like tour bus or a semi-armored bus with a steel grate for walls. The decision was not hard. After choosing our awesome bus, we were also informed of the choice of meats. Not tiger meat mind you, but a choice of what we could supply them with. We went with two chickens each (the live, clucking type) as well as 4 strips of steak. The chickens went quickly. It was evident the tigers had been through this song and dance before, and as soon as they heard the clucking were roused from their lazy reclining positions. As our guide/driver reached for the chicken, the tigers leapt up against the side of the bus, ready to receive our offering. The driver opened his side of the safety door, slammed in a chicken, and attempted to jettison it, but the tiger was right there waiting. A couple clucks later, one more tiger had been fed his lunch. The steak was a bit different. Whereas the guide controlled the chicken launcher, we were able to take what amounted to a large fork and get a massive strip of undoubtedly low-grade beef on the end. Then the games began, moving it towards the tiger then away, strafing along the side of the bus, and listening to its annoyed roar. Eventually the taunter would push the steak through the metal grating, the tiger would snag it and jealously pull it away, retreating to devour it in peace as the next tiger stepped up.
Getting there itself was a chore. I had my trusty Lonely Planet that was published in 2007 with data from 2006, and it had helpful information on the several bus routes we needed and how to get between them. Helpful in the sense that 1 block can be construed as 3 blocks, and Northeast and Northwest corner are the same thing. Getting over these hurdles involved lots of asking random people, including asking one particularly helpful older street-cleaner who seemed positively overjoyed to help a pair of lost-looking whiteys journeying to the poorer outskirts of (what must have been) his hometown. Although it’s also possible that I perceived a smile based on a lack of teeth as well. Could have been either way.
So there were museums, a totally awesome tiger park, and not too much else. We spent a little bit of time just walking around the downtown Central Street area, which had the requisite shops and restaurants. On our first day we were stopped by a Russian family who then started asking for directions to a hotel. All we could do however was turn, stare, shrug and tell them we only spoke English. Harbin is unique in China in that most of the white foreigners are Russian, and English is not the dominant secondary language. Of course, there was still tons of English, as well as Engrish. Both non-chain and chain restaurants like Pizza Hut (which we went to) still had English on their menus, but the spoken language of choice for those over 30 seemed to be Russian. Since it is awesome and America rocked the USSR’s socks off shortly after my birth however, it is readily apparent that Russian has taken a steep drop in importance, as evidenced by the number of young people we met that still preferred to study English. It is also readily apparent that the Russians are really creepy. I’ll get to that soon. But while we’re on the subject of languages and Americans:
Harbin people speak very good standard Chinese. Whereas Guangxi people speak a really messed up dialect with tons of different words, and Beijingers throw around R-endings every other word and slur speech like drunken sailors, Harbin is very close to Standard Mandarin, which is unsurprising given its Northeastern origins. This allowed for even smoother than usual speech with the cabbies. Twice in fact we were given discounts on fares. Once, on our last cab ride to the train station, the driver asked the standard “Where are you from?” question. Although having varied my answers, usually with South Africa or Ireland as one of them I was all business this time and just told him America and left it at that. He latched on to this however, and immediately went on about how awesome we were in every way. In typical Chinese fashion I deflected the complements, politely disagreeing and insisting that we were not in fact the lords of all creation and we were more like a village on a knoll than a city on a hill. Nonetheless he continued his rambling about America, mentioning everything from how cool Obama is, how attractive we all are, how smart we all are, and what great movies we create. His words, not mine. He also made several thumbs up gestures during the ride, and as much as possible used the words “OK” and “Good.” Upon arriving, the meter read 11 kuai. There is an automatic ‘fuel surcharge’ of 1 kuai which made it 12. I pulled out the money and he told me 10. I was confused at first, and was trying to think of any reason his meter might be broken, if it was a special day, or what. Turns out we were precious cargo, and after asking why, his only response was “You’re Americans. Americans are cool!”
We got one more taxi discount. The Unit 731 museum was a long ways away, and a bus ride would have left us several kilometers short we still would have had to walk. We opted for the cab, and before getting in, negotiated a 60yuan price. But after closing the door, he activated the meter. We blazed through the city and into the outskirts as he chewed up kilometers. The meter kept increasing, hitting 40, then 50. I decided that if it went beyond the 60s and into 70 I would throw a fit, already formulating my argument. He had however been talking on his radio the entire time. Most taxis in China seem not to have radios, but someone in Harbin decided that if a bunch of taxis helped the others out especially in terms of directions, they could get more fares per hour. Ours was asking about the specific location of the 731 base, though he clearly knew the general area. He was also however shooting the bull with his friends over the radio, talking about the foreigners he picked up. I listened, and waited. Colin and I had been in a conversation but when he started to talk about us I started listening more intently. As we got close to the conversation and the meter broke 60 and then 65, I asked why he was talking about us to his friends. I had not previously let on that I understood more Chinese than “ni hao” so he probably felt pretty ambushed. Although we had agreed on 60 and the meter read 65 or so, he let us go for 50 kuai instead. I gave him a hundred, he gave me 50 back, and I asked, “Really?” but he seemed pretty sure of it. I don’t know if it was an attempt to regain lost face, or like the other one thought we were really cool, but that was another 10 kuai saved. Wahoo.
There was another sketchier side to Harbin as well. After leaving a bar, Colin and I returned to our hostel and decided we wanted McDonald’s. We went to the near one, which was closed. Disappointed, we decided that KFC was almost as good and walked down central street to it. Also closed. But it was halfway to the 24 hour McDonald’s (I was blown away the first one in fact wasn’t 24 hours) so we again made the voyage. We got to the McDonald’s and discovered how sadly depleted they were in food. I got an order of nuggets and a drink, while Colin got his stuff as well. While standing in line, we were approached by two Russian men with weathered faces. Demetri was shortish and almost fat, and Aleksander was sort of tall and somewhat gaunt. They were wearing lots of clothing, even though it was a warm summer night. Like other Russians, they first approached us speaking Russian. Demetri’s English was decent enough to harass us however. The conversation went something like this:
“Do you want to have fun?” Demetri asks.
I hesitate. “Uhhh what sort of fun?” Skeptical only begins to describe me.
“You know, you know. Fun.” As if he has telepathically beamed me his meaning. This guy is on something.
“No thanks, we don’t really feel like it. We just want McDonald’s.”
“McDonald’s is bad! Bad food! Do you like bad food?” This guy is absolutely nuts.
“Um, yes, I like McDonald’s, their chicken nuggets are delicious.”
Aleksander chimes in, “Nooooo, McDonald’s is bad!”
Colin goes on a short rant on the merits of McDonald’s, implying that Russia has given no such comparable gift to the world. For better or for worse, this is lost on our ‘friends.’
Food ordered and received, we sit down promptly. They meander over to us. Demetri is not going to let us go without a fight. Perhaps literally.
“Hey man, let’s go party.” I swear this is something out of a bad movie. These are like the Russian mobsters in the beginning of Boondock saints. I wouldn’t trust them farther than I can throw them, and our boy Demetri here is at least 100 kilos.
“You want to come?” Aleksander hasn’t quite refined his subtle moves yet.
At this point I’m pretty amused, but also a little scared. If it actually came down to it, I have no doubt a physical struggle would end in your valiant protagonists losing out. Hoping they don’t speak out Chinese, I make the decision to solicit our neighboring patrons for advice. Two Chinese girls, probably even younger than Colin and I, are eating their food in relative peace. I butt in unceremoniously, apologize for doing so, then ask them what they think is going on.
“What do you think they want?” I inquire.
They have no clue. I ask a more circumspect question: “Have you ever seen them or any other Russians do this?”
No they have not, but I neglected to ask if they were even locals. There is a look of trepidation on their faces. I’m not sure which pair of whiteys they’re more afraid of. For all she knows, this may be a creepy pick-up line.
I leave them be. Colin and I discuss, in a quick and gratuitous use of slang, how best to deal with the Russian guys. We consider the silent treatment. Not viable, really. Everyone knows when they get the silent treatment. So for a couple more minutes, they ask if we want to have fun, party, and drink. With Canadian tuxedos over stained shirts, it was hard to consider these caricatures of characters as an actual threat to me. Still, we continue rejecting their advances. Then I get the idea to monologue. I spring the idea to Colin. “Basically,” I tell him, “I will just go on and on about whatever I want for several minutes. You don’t have to care, you don’t have to understand. Just let me talk for a long time. Then you take a turn, and hopefully they think we are actually interested in some real conversation.”
So I start telling Colin the saga of Brett Favre. He is utterly apathetic toward all sport, and certainly this line of speech, but as I explained earlier, that’s not the point. I get worked up telling Colin about Favre’s legacy, his highs and lows, and how ESPN worships him. Just as I wind down and Colin starts into a lecture on some sort of economic principle, our tormentors departed the restaurant. We breathed a sigh of relief, laughed, and waited a little bit before leaving to make sure they were well and far away. The poor Chinese girls to my left had long since departed, taking smart advantage of our entangled situation.
Colin and I left the McDonald’s half-joking about what might have been, the good and the bad. And I really don’t know how it would have gone. I suspect it would have ended poorly. Demetri and his lackey seemed awfully scummy, and I don’t think it farfetched to imagine they might have been very low-level mob thugs. Or maybe they were just two misunderstood men, too cool for this world. Either way, we saw them the next day in the broad well-lit daylight of a very populated Central Street, thankfully. It was awkward.
And that was Harbin. We took the D28 back to Beijing, and the ride was much the same. Every time I ride a train in China I’m conflicted as to its viability in America. I love taking the train in China, and if it were the same price in the States I’d love it here too, but I don’t know how feasible that is. Anyhow, we got to Beijing after midnight, when the taxis were out in force, picking off us tourists coming from the train station like so many wolves circling weary sheep. Faced with waiting in a really long line for a legit taxi or taking a black taxi, we actually chose the third way. We walked a couple blocks from the trainstation, plopped down our luggage, and attempted to hail a taxi. We did, and every one we did we would haggle with. And we took turns laughing at offers, giving counteroffers, and generally have a good time. Or at least I did, and I think Colin enjoyed the chess-match/gamesmanship of it all. Some of the drivers were a little more annoyed, but hey they didn’t get my fare. We eventually found one who took us for 60 kuai, even though the meter would have run us around 25. It was past midnight, and tired-looking foreigners each with 50kg of baggage and looking quite tired; guess who had the bargaining power. Still, I felt accomplished in getting him to bother bargaining with us for almost 5 minutes and getting him to insult my knowledge of Beijing before we took the ride. It turned out or hostel was in a super sketchy hutong and unsurprisingly he had to call the hostel, so I gave him my phone and away we went. We arrived and fell asleep.
The next day was then our last full day in glorious land of Zhongguo. To celebrate, we went to Silk Street to peruse the knock-off goods. I bought a “SILK STREET AND PEARL MARKET SECURITY” badge off one of the shop attendants, and I literally mean ‘off’ her. I pointed at it and asked how much it cost. At first she laughed, said I was kidding, and it wasn’t for sale. I named a price of ten yuan, she jokingly said 1000, and we ended up settling on twenty. It is my pride and joy. We also bought Polo shirts for 25 RMB each. This is an absurdly low price. It took about that many minutes worth of haggling, and we got them down to pretty much their basement price. We figured this because when we were walking around with our shirts, not a single one of the other vendors believed we bought them for 25 RMB. One vendor seemed willing to pay 15 for each of them. And the amount of pain and negotiating we went through to get them down from 150 each, to 80, 30, 26, 25.5 and then finally 25 was high. I don’t actually care about that .5 yuan each, it’s about beating the vendors at their own game and not giving an inch to some of the great rip-off queens of China that ply their trade at Silk Street. Rarely is your starting price the price actually paid, so there’s quite a deal of accomplishment in winning that fight.
I also returned to the Passby Café and dragged Colin along with me. It was a nice ease back into American prices. It’s $5 for the most American sandwich I’ve ever had in China, but still none of those annoying tax/tip shenanigans.
And after one final night at the club, (Banana!) we were off the next day.
We got to the airport with time to spare, for there wasn’t much point in sitting around the hostel growing old. I’m not sure if it’s ironic, glorious, or just tasty, but our last meal in China was Burger King. We boarded, took seats side-by-side in the exit row, and the 777 was away.
Leaving always feels weird. I liked this year more than last. Again my Chinese grew by leaps and bounds, thanks to boundless practice. I’m confident in it now. Also, I was a lot closer this year to more of the program participants than last year. I did more traveling, all with said friends. For example, Tai Shan by all accounts simply should have been miserable. My lungs almost collapsed in the middle of it. We took a terrible train early in the morning, arrived in the terrible city of Tai’an, had a miserable breakfast and commenced the soul-crushing ascent. We got to the top and I actually did collapse, buckled legs, onto my bed. The food at the top was expensive, and when we woke up at 4:00am to see the sunrise, not only were we entirely fogged in, but it thunderstormed on us. And there was the standing in the gondola line for 1.5 hours, then the standing train ride back. Somehow, somewhere, we stole fun from the jaws of defeat.
We touched down a couple minutes before we left, when speaking of local times. INS and customs were a breeze, and getting my utterly nondescript suitcase was by far the most annoying issue. My parents picked us up, and stepping outside that O’Hare airport to see the blue sky was like seeing the end of your favorite movie; you know what’s coming, you know when, but you still love it.
I miss the jiaozi and the baozi, as well as delicious meat chuanr and cheap EVERYTHING. I don’t miss the dirtiness. I miss train rides but not train stations. I don’t miss censored internet, but I really find myself missing the great municipality of Tianjin.
And China has rubbed off on me, not always for the better. Driving on a two-lane highway only days after getting back from China, I made an aggressive pass. It wasn’t into oncoming traffic expecting him to hit the shoulder, but there was a visible car on the horizon that quickly got larger. I don’t know if I would have normally done that. I also might be already over that however, as driving now I feel perfectly normal. Sometimes I’m more cynical about our future with China, as I think about all the prejudiced idiots I’ve met who truly believe China can do no wrong. But then I remember that Harbin cabbie, and how most young people see us, and I’m encouraged. I’m conflicted, just like China is.
I don’t have much else to say. Like I already stated, I will be back, it’s only a matter of time. And hopefully next time I’ll be getting paid instead of doing the paying.
Thanks for reading! I hope you felt it was worthwhile!
This shirt has everything. First, it is awesome, even in America. Second, it has English on it that 特别少 (very few) Chinese people will be able to understand, which makes me look awesome. Thirdly, that ridiculous looking cutesy orange with a smiley face is completely in line with the rest of this country’s unhealthy obsession with things like