A colder eye

It's turned cold. While it’s not sub-zero or anything extreme, it’s worse than that in a way: a damp, clinging cold that you never seem to warm up from until you get back into your bed at night. Waking up, it’s cold; walking to school, it’s cold; the classrooms are cold; the restaurant at lunch and in the evening is cold. It’s a far cry from the 35°C temperatures which welcomed us all those months ago, the tee-shirts and shorts and ice cold beers in the open air. But it’s symptomatic of another subtle change – an inevitable one I think. Up to now the blog has been a wide eyed catalogue of enthusiastic observation where everything has been new and interesting. But gradually a routine sets in, the holiday high is interspersed with more and more moments of reflection, more doubts and questions or criticisms as I observe things now with a somewhat colder eye.

I suppose it’s not quite the 9-5 routine I left behind in the UK (especially when every day begins at 6.30 with a burst of Ode to Joy or The Blue Danube Waltz or some other classical favourite blasting from the loudspeakers all around the roof of the school) but a pattern has definitely established itself. Sunday-Monday night is sleepless, wondering if what I've planned for lessons is going to work; you wouldn't believe the nightmares I've had. So Monday then comes and lessons begin. Normally one plan (either Seniors or Juniors) will be fine but the other will inexplicably bomb. Tuesday and Wednesday are spent adjusting-changing-fretting over the plan which by Thursday is starting to work and by Friday is probably the best lesson plan ever. Saturday is ring-fenced as a day-off whatever happens. Then hey, what do you know, it's Sunday again - 'Lesson Planning Day’. I’m sure it shouldn’t take a whole day but there you go.

Generally there are four lessons in a day which doesn’t sound like much but it adds up to well over 500 individual pupils each week. And, although you might be in class for as little as 80 minutes on a quiet day there’s never quite enough time to get off the campus and do anything fun.

I go to 'Cheers' of an evening; it used to be for a few beers and a book or a chat with the others but it’s become way too cold to hang around so food has become fast and beer brisk. Open to the elements on two sides, you also need to dress for dinner there now: I’ve become a ‘hoody’ since winter took hold. I’ve a fleece and a waterproof on top of that too. At least I don't get food stains on my shirts anymore.

Hoody, fleece and waterproof is the new uniform inside school as well. Heating? Pah! Get those windows open and let the fresh air in! Funny, I think it's all to do with SARS and not passing on germs but everyone will happily sneeze at a hundred miles an hour in all directions without a second thought.

At home, too, all my neighbours have their windows wide open and simply put on an extra layer as the temperature drops another degree in their living room. For me, the air conditioner is turned to ‘hot’ and blasts out warm air 24x7. It’s like living in front of a big hairdryer.

What frustrates me most, though, is my failure to make good progress with learning Chinese. With an 18 hour working week I can hardly use the excuse that “I haven’t got time” although that’s exactly how it feels. My daily routine takes me between my apartment and school and restaurant and back, during which time the only Chinese I need is the word for ‘beer’ and the phrase “pork and mushrooms”. Sometimes I’ll get into a faltering conversation there, which is great – briefly. But what I’d expected was to be immersed in a Chinese Babel where I’d simply be forced to learn or (better still) where I couldn’t help but do so.

Excuses, excuses, I know.

Another preconception was that there’d be more interaction with the Chinese teachers. (This is a little disingenuous too because at the very beginning I was incredibly relieved that we weren’t being closely monitored in case they found out I didn’t have a clue what I was doing!) One or two will stop to have a quick word as they pass in the corridor and most will smile or nod a ‘good morning’ but beyond that, nothing.

No social interaction is one thing but there’s no professional interaction either. We’ve no idea how we’re doing or whether we’re doing what we’re meant to be doing. We hardly see our boss, the Vice Principal. And when the school gets students to produce English plays for a competition no one thinks to ask the English Language Assistants to get involved. Is it possible we're only here to tick a box on a parent's checklist: native English speaking staff? Check.

As I said before, it’s inevitable that some readjustment from my dewy eyed enthusiasm would take place and I’m sure some further adjustment will happen, pendulum-like. Still, I’m counting the weeks to our Spring Break which begins in mid January (four lesson plans to go).

They say it starts to warm up again in March. In the meantime, I’m happy to weather this downturn and just wrap up warm.



PS. Thanks Danny & Faz for your kind comments. Even if one of you is just a cat.

Thanks for the comment, Faz the Cat

... but who are you?

Another day, another temple

I'm not sure if the title of this entry displays honesty or pure philistinism, but I am sure you know what I mean. This one was the Qingyang Gong Temple which, to be fair, was different insofar as it's not up a mountain but within the sprawl of urban Chengdu on the first ringroad. (Ringroads to Chengdu are like the holes on the belt of a middle aged man.)

As you can imagine, Chengdu First Ringroad is a pretty busy street full of cars and car horns, scooters and suicidal pedestrians slipping between, shouting a lot. All the more weird then, to step through the gate of the Qingyang Gong temple and find that you leave all that behind; not spiritually (you know me better than that) but literally!

Oh, perhaps it is getting to me a little bit because I really enjoyed this visit. Originating from the Ming Dynasty and added to in the Qing, there are are a series of pavilions or halls dedicated to Taoist deities including the Three Purities Hall which houses huge golden figures. At its entrance are two bronze goats, worn smooth by visitors hoping for a bit of good luck to rub off on them.

Each of the other shrines, in clouds of sweet incense, harbours more gargantuan deities, gold and colourful with eye popping expressions. And all around are trees as golden, at this time of year, as the gods themselves.

I find myself warming to the Chinese approach to restoration now too. Thinking about it, you keep your home in good nick by constant repair and replacement; and that, really, is what's happening not only here but in Beijing too, where the Forbidden City is undergoing a fifteen or twenty year overhaul project. Where the village of Huanaglong Xi just felt wrong a few weeks ago, contrived and downright plasticky, this one felt right - possibly because the entire ambience of the place has been preserved along with the wood and the paint and the tiles.

Next week I'll be off to a wholly different kind of temple. A huge structure with bright colours - mostly blue and yellow - it's a brand new one dedicated to sheer consumerism. And its name is Ikea China.