Certain Uncertainty: A Story from China - 中國故事

by Charles DeBenedetto

(Muslim Street Market, Xi’an, China. Photo Credit: topchinatravel.com)

It is unbearably hot. Sweat pours into my eyes, burning, before I have time to wipe it away. Desperately, I want to order an iced beverage from the many tea shops that line the streets, but I cannot. I am a little savvy by now, and I know that they use unfiltered tap water for the ice cubes, and that it will make me sick. As I walk the crowded market streets, my hands never leave my pockets, one hand grasping my phone, the other my wallet. I wear my backpack on the front.

I am not in Taiwan. I am in Mainland China.

A man with physical deformities, globular, amorphous legs and arms of abnormal size, is kowtowing, begging for money. I have been told that the money collected by people like him will go to organized crime groups. Still, I look again sadly before continuing on.

A stout man in a sweat-stained T-shirt stops too closely to me. He is holding a colored paper and a tiny pair of scissors. Before I have time to move around him, he begins to cut deftly, rapidly, stealing glances up at me before going back to his work. I feel uncomfortable. After about thirty seconds, he has cut a perfect silhouette of my head, complete with my large nose and the straw hat I was wearing.

I’m wary. I don’t want to bite. “Cool,” I say flatly.

“Thirty yuan” he says matter-of-factly (the “yuan” is the Chinese currency, and at this time six yuan was about one US dollar).

I really want to say, “I didn’t ask you to make that for me,” but instead I say, “Oh, I don’t have any extra spending money.” It is a lie, and he knows it.

He looks attacked. “But I already cut the paper!” he says angrily.

Again, I really want to speak my unspoken thoughts, but I refrain. I simply say, “I’m sorry,” and continue walking.

He follows me for quite a while before relenting.

Zigzagging through shops, some have specialties, like calligraphy or porcelains, while others sell kitschy T-shirts and Communist merchandise. (If “Communist merchandise” sounds like an oxy-moron, that’s because it is. “Chinese Communism” should be understood to be an authoritarian government with a capitalist market.)

In one of those kitschy shops, there is a T-shirt with former President Obama wearing a Chinese Communist red-stared green hat, with the word “Oba-mao” on it. Walking past it, I come across a copy of Mao’s Little Red Book, and I decide to buy it so that I can better understand the appeal of his personality cult. I inquire about the price. The shopkeeper, a gruff older man with gray hair and stubble, says “one-hundred yuan.”

The price sounds pretty good if I were in America, but I know I am getting ripped off. As anyone who has been in China for more than a week would do, I feign anger and say accusingly, “That’s too expensive!”

Without even blinking, he says, “Okay, fifty yuan.”

“I’ll think about it,” I say coolly as I leave to aimlessly wander around other stores and kill time.

Twenty minutes later, I return. I ask about the price again, and now he says “twenty yuan.” I talked him down by eighty percent! I agree to the price, and I leave with a slight smile, feeling very proud of my achievement.

Back in the dorm, I excitedly tell my Chinese roommate about my experience. I pass the book over to him so that he can see it. Flipping the pages absentmindedly, he says sadly, “This book is only worth about five yuan. You were still ripped off.”

* * *

My time in the mainland was interesting and exciting, but also very uncertain. I grew to dislike going on adventures and exploring, because it felt as though everyone was trying to trick me. Western people, especially those with little Mandarin ability, are perceived as the perfect combination of wealthy and easy-to-scam, even though, with my substantial student loans, I did not feel affluent or superior. Even ATMs could not be trusted, as some are rigged to eat your card and make as many purchases with it as possible before you can call your card company and de-activate it.

Whenever I was taken advantage of, I tried to be forgiving. “They are trying to scam me because they live in poverty, and I should just hope that they can use the money they get from me to eat a warm meal,” I would think. Despite China’s strong appearance, the Communist Party has reported that there are about 600 million Chinese people earning a living of only 140 USD a month, which is tremendously inadequate for even a spartan lifestyle. We can assume that the actual number of impoverished people may be higher.

But a society where nothing is certain – all prices are negotiable, and quality is always unclear – is not one that I want to be a part of. Of course, I made friends in China and met some wonderful and good people, but I voted with my feet when I chose not to settle down there.

I chose Taiwan because, contrary to China, there is virtually universal trust in both the market and the government, and Taiwanese people trust each other and many have high virtues. Almost every foreigner in Taiwan remembers fondly the first time they left their keys in the ignition of their scooter all day, only to return after work and, shaking their head, wonder how many people walked past it and decided not to steal it. Whenever I buy something, the price is fixed and fair, and I am not told a higher price in an attempt to scam a foreigner.

And on a hot day, I do buy an iced beverage, and I know that I will not get sick.

A Staunch Defense of the Squat Toilet - 蹲廁鐵粉

by Charles DeBenedetto

(It is not scary. It is revolutionary. Photo Credit: flickr.com)

When I first came to Taiwan, I was quite nervous about using “squat toilets.” That term is a little vulgar, so let’s use the term that Taiwanese people use, “Japanese-style toilets”. I was afraid I would fall in, or miss, or that my underdeveloped leg muscles would give out and I would have to cry for someone to help me up. It was difficult for a while, but once I learned the technique, I never looked back. Most public places in Taiwan have both Western-style and Japanese-style toilets (to accommodate foreigners, or because of Westernization?), but I will always choose the squatty potty. I know you are horrified, so please, allow me to explain myself.

Prologue: The Technique

The first time I used a Japanese-style toilet, I must have looked at it for at least twenty minutes and still had no idea of how to use it. My entire life up to this point, I had been pooing with my legs at a ninety-degree angle, so I assumed that my position should be just like a sit-down toilet, minus the seat. The result was that I was pretty much doing a wall-sit in midair, the kind that we would do in high school while training for Spring Track and Field. Sweating bullets and legs shaking, the last thing on my mind was focusing on the deed at hand, so I gave up.

Another problem. With your pants at your ankles, won’t you poo all over them when you are squatting?? As the amateur I was, I would take off my pants and underwear and hang them up before attempting to squat, which worked okay but was extremely time-consuming, which definitely annoyed the Taiwanese people who were next in line.

Finally, I learned that squatting is not ninety-degrees, but a very deep squat. At first, your leg muscles are weak, and cannot maintain this position for long, but over time, it becomes so easy that you could do it all day. And in fact, when there are no chairs around, Taiwanese people can often be found squatting in groups because it is more comfortable than standing.

Once you have mastered the deep squat, the problem of what to do with your pants is solved by using one hand to pull them forward a little, and that’s it. After you have learned the technique, the benefits of squatting slowly become painstakingly obvious.

Defense Number One: It is more sanitary.

Everyone knows the haunting thoughts of just how many dirty bums have touched that Western-style toilet before you, and we all have wasted so much toilet paper by covering the seat before we sit. With a Japanese-style toilet, your butt hovers in the air, so you touch nothing that other butts have touched. Even better, when you are done, you simply step on the foot pedal to make it flush; no hands required!

In Mainland China, they go one step further and do not even have doors on their stalls. I believe the mentality there is that it would be dirty to poop, wipe, and then touch a door, and although I can understand that, I would rather live in Taiwan where people cannot see you defecate.

Defense Number Two: It is more natural.

Are there any other animals other than humans who poop while sitting down at a ninety-degree angle? No. Why? Because that curves the end of your tunnel, and makes gravity work against you. I’m sure you have felt the frustration of needing to relieve yourself, but having to strain heavily to get the train out of the station. I have, too, but never with a Japanese-style toilet. When you squat, your flight-path is vertical, a straight-shot, Geronimo. A light, gentle push is all you need, and you’re done.

Because of the naturalness of Japanese-style toilets, “squatters” have a lower chance of such inconveniences as constipation, hemorrhoids, and incomplete bowel movements. I have never experienced any discomfort while taking care of business in Taiwan before, and I have Japanese-style toilets to thank for that.

Defense Number Three: It is humbler.

Why, then, do so many of us want to sit in an unnatural way when we poo? I believe it is because we want to pretend that we are not animals. We have consciousness, we have invented airplanes and computers, and gosh darn it I am going to poo in a way that reflects my superiority over other life forms! This is hubristic, proud, and nonsensical.

It makes sense that the Japanese would create such a natural toilet, as their spiritual worldview, embodied by the Shinto faith, asserts that people and nature ought to live harmoniously. To squat is to humbly admit that you are an animal. A special one, surely, and clever, but an animal nonetheless. Coming to this realization, you will be rewarded with good karma in the form of stronger leg muscles and faster, smoother bowel movements.

I realize that many of us do not think about all that when we decide to sit. Rather, sitting on the toilet is a part of our culture that we hardly think about, and when we experience constipation and straining, we just accept this as our fate as humans. But this is not the way things have to be.

In the West, you have very few options other than a sit-down toilet, but if you want to try to emulate the naturalness of a squat toilet, you can put a foot stool in front of you. While sitting on the toilet, putting your feet on the stool will closer mimic the angle of squatting, and, while it will not be perfect, it should make things easier for you. You can call it a “stool stool,” if you will. I have yet to patent that, so I’m a little nervous to share this secret with you, but here it is anyway.

* * *

I mentioned that public places in Taiwan usually have both Western-style toilets and Japanese-style toilets. You probably imagined a bathroom that is split half and half, but often all but one or two are Japanese-style toilets. You must walk all the way to the end if you wish to use the dirty, strenuous “sit toilet.”

Unfortunately, “globalization” and “Westernization” are often synonymous, so I fear that the “squat toilet” will soon be endangered, and perhaps one day even become extinct. But maybe, during one of my future visits back to the USA, maybe I will walk past all of the “sit toilets” and find, way at the end, a lone “squat toilet,” for the occasional person who does not enjoy popping a blood vessel while pooing, and who has achieved a higher level of poo consciousness.

Maybe.

The Journey Home - 回家路

by Charles DeBenedetto

(The first bullet train of the day. Photo Credit: Author).

Looking out the window, you see a gentle, flat ocean, then endless green rice paddies, broken only by the occasional slivers of roads, with busy streams of cars rolling over them. From this view, it looks idyllic, and you wonder if first-time arrivals expect to land in the past. The flight attendant asks you if you need an arrival card, but you decline the offer, because you’ve been working here a while and you have an “Alien Resident Certificate” (ARC). In your mind you make a joke about how it sounds like you arrived here from Mars to work.

The plane lands on the clear, wet runway. It’s raining again, you observe. You look at your now-active-again cell phone. May 28^th. Ha. It’ll be raining until June 28^th, certainly.

The tourists line up in a zigzag fashion for customs, but you follow the Taiwanese to the electronic customs. A scan of your residency card, a look into your soul from the dead-eye of the electronic camera, a finger scan, and a robotic-yet-friendly “Welcome back!” in perfect robot English. The doors to the country slowly open for you, and then slam shut again the moment you pass through them.

After collecting your luggage, you could stop for food at the many restaurants in the airport, but you choose to head straight for the airport MRT (subway). Immediately, you chug along past tall buildings, busy roads, and beyond them, those deep green mountains, rounded on top and surrounded by mist.  You think about those old Chinese paintings where nature is huge, and humans are small (the correct proportions, you conclude). About twenty minutes later, you arrive at the bullet train station.

You’ve been here many times before, but you still gape a little, looking at how modern it all is. Swiping your metro card to leave the subway, you notice the trip costs less than one US dollar. You use a machine to buy your bullet train ticket, and you think for a moment about how you could be virtually anywhere on the west coast of the island in less than two hours. You buy your ticket, scan it to enter the terminal, and buy a rice ball and a coffee from 7-11. Moments later, the signature bullet nose of the orange-and-white train speeds into the station, followed by the twelve immaculate enamel-white carriages.

You bought a window seat. You always do. Looking at the LED screen, you notice the train is traveling at its top speed of 300 km/hr. You use your phone to convert that to 186 miles/hr. You let that number sink in, and wonder, why not build a bullet train to connect Boston to New York, and New York to DC? That Taiwan built this will always impress you. You notice how the aisle, the seats, the trays, they all look exactly like an airplane’s, but when you pull up the window screen, it’s not clouds, but those jade-green mountains again, and those light green rice paddies. A lone temple, with the classic winding dragons perched on the roof, protects the rice paddies, and a lone white bird with a long neck and far-reaching wings circles around, looking for something. Towns and cities blink by in seconds, giving you a reference point with which to understand just how fast you are going. You finish your rice ball and coffee, play with your phone a little, watch the Taiwanese countryside fly by, and already it is time to disembark.

Again, the bullet train station is large, looming, modern, and you notice familiar brands like Starbucks and 7-11, as well as brands that have come to be familiar, like Mos Burger and FamilyMart. There are reunited family members embracing, taxi drivers outside leaning on their cars and smoking, and a huge LED timetable listing the arrivals and departures. You determinedly push past it all to the adjacent local train station, scan your metro card again, and wait a short while for the train to arrive.

The local train has fewer passengers, but it is still clean, and the automated voice still remembers to declare all of the destinations not only in Mandarin, Taiwanese, and Hakka (a local dialect), but in English as well. On this train, including English is just for you, you think with a smile. It takes longer to get to your neighborhood because this train goes a lot slower and stops a lot more frequently than the bullet train, but that’s alright. You’re tired anyway, and you are enjoying watching the different city districts drift by, with the maddening traffic and the bombardment of Chinese advertisements covering every inch of building space. When you disembark, you are the only one, and the station is practically empty, except for a quaint piece of modern art sitting in the middle. A teenager is leaning against it and staring at their phone. You roll your luggage outside and get on the next bus, which promptly takes you to your apartment on the outskirts of the city.

Watching the bus roll away, you then turn to face your apartment. You wave to the security guard, and look past him to the clock on the wall. Not much time has passed, really, considering the distance you have traveled since arriving at the airport.

You reflect on Taiwan’s modernity, so much more advanced than you thought it would be when you first decided to come here. You silently joke to yourself that you’ll never need to buy a car.

* * *

Back home, I am often asked questions about Taiwan like, “Does Taiwan have cities?” or “Can you find ice cream in Taiwan?” I do not blame anyone for asking these questions, because most Americans have just never had the opportunity to learn anything about Taiwan before.

Of course, the answers to those questions are “Yes” and “Yes!” Taiwan is modern, sometimes bafflingly so. Transportation is one way to experience such modernity. Whereas in America, good luck to you if you don’t have a car and don’t live in the center of a city, in Taiwan there really is an extremely intricate network of subways, buses, trains, and bullet trains connecting the busiest of city streets to the remotest of mountaintops and countrysides.

An American without a vehicle is imprisoned to their home and anywhere they can get on their two feet. But a Taiwanese person with a little money on their metro card is truly free.