Diarrhea and the Dao

Ten hours into the slow train to Yi Chong, a revolution was simmering in my bowels. A vast spectre stood before me – the hideous phantom of Chinese train food. I will not paint the entire canvas here - highlights included 'meat' balls of indeterminate origin and a new and questionable form of tofu – but it was less Rembrandt and more Pollock with every passing hour. There were three of us in our little cabin, bunked horizontally in our allotted cubic meters as the train chugged its way through the plains of China to the banks of the Yang-Tze. There was little else to do but contemplate the Dao, peck away furtively at my notebook, and pause every half hour or so to frequent the medieval sanitation facilities, which could only be entered while the train was moving, as the lavatory itself was a simple hole in the restroom floor which emptied directly onto the side of the track. At least my tofu addled stomach could take come consolation from the wisdom of Lao-Tze, for in the lavatory I would derive pungent new meaning from chapter 43 of the Dao:

“The world's softest thing gallops to and fro 

through the world's hardest thing. 

Things without substance can penetrate things without crevices.”

Penetrating wisdom indeed. My, I was a long way from home, and it was turning out to be a bumpy ride.

I had not intended to spend my weekend with diarrhea and the Dao. But that was before I passed Principal Joe in the hallway and he beckoned me into his well lit office to share what appeared to be light conversation about the New York subway system and the pleasures of lyric poetry. About half an hour into our tete a tete, Joe's face suddenly morphed into the expression I have come to understand as 'Work mode.' He took in a deep breath and spoke in a tone that was suddenly slow and measured.

“You've noticed your students.” He said, carefully weighing my reaction. “What do you think?”

“Some of them are doing very well. The eleventh graders in particular. But the twelfth graders...”

“Yes, it is a shame,” said principal Joe, with a shrug of his shoulders. “They don't know very much.”

“No, they don't,” I said, glancing at the clock on the wall.

“There's a lot of work to do.”

This was true. I have a lot of work to do. Principal Joe was able to defer a lot of the blame for the state of his flock because he, like myself, was a new teacher. In fact, the international school has had a new headmaster every year for reasons that have not yet been explained to me. I assured him I would do my best to help the students learn.

“You must be very strict with them,” he said.

“Of course,” I agreed.

“Very hard.”

“Yes. It won't be easy

“Very good, very good. Hard knocks: very important!” And he clapped his hands on my shoulders and laughed. I gave a chuckle in response. But then Principal Joe 'remembered' something else, which must've been the real reason he called me in to see him. And keep in mind this was after a half hour of light conversation.

“Our sister school in Yi Chong is having their opening ceremony this weekend. They want you and Janice to attend.”

I did not even know we had a sister school, and Janice and I had already made plans for the weekend. I carefully phrased my reply.

“Do you mean, tomorrow?”

“Yes, we would leave tomorrow morning.”

The noose was tightening.

“So what did you tell them, Principal Joe?”

“That we would be going to Yi Chong tomorrow. It is a fifteen hour journey by train.”

There had to be some way to get out of this.

“Have they already reserved the tickets?”

“I will make sure,” he said, “and then I will let you know.”

But I already knew. There was no way out. The conversation thus ended, I returned to the teachers lounge.

I told Janice of the news and she immediately responded by planning to get sick. Janice, it appears, had considerable previous experience with the Chinese train system. Just as she was debating the preferred method of catastrophically weakening her immune system, Principal Joe burst in with a gleeful look in his eyes. We would have the tickets, he said, and he would be pleased to accompany us at 6:45 on the morning train. Without waiting for an answer, he was gone. Goodbye weekend, hello Principle Joe.

At least I had a bed in my compartment. As I moaned softly by the curving window, I eventually settled into the rhythm of the train. The view wasn't so bad. There were green things and delicately curving mountains. I finished one book and started another – appropriately enough, Dante's Inferno. I even subdued my intestings for a couple brief interludes of slumber. I wasn't crisp and refreshed when we exited the train at midnight on saturday morning, but I was still reasonably sane as the battle for my bowels raged on. Sadly, all would be undone by the rigors of Chinese hospitality.

Picking us up at half past midnight, our hosts in Yi Chong saw fit to whisk us away in their pristine new BMW to a scenic bistro overlooking the Yang-Tze river. When we got there were were alone: aside from a waitress and a cook, it was just us and the food. And oh, the food! A full seven course meal swiveled seductively on the table before my weary eyes, beckoning on the dais like a Park Avenue escort. I knew the sordid consequences of each additional bite, but Chinese custom mandated I partake of their hospitality. The main course was a Yang-Tze river fish in a steaming broth of fresh country vegetables. He gaped at me from his luxurious cauldron, and as my eyes met his, we shared a moment which resonated the most secret chords of my intestines. I grabbed my fork and had a bite of his tail, complimented my hosts on the local cuisine, and then sprinted in defeat for the nearest restroom.

There would be more nights and more dinners, a feast for the eyes and a Bataan death march for the innards. Indeed, the cuisine of southern China is luscious – with amazing buttery omelets, tamales, roast duck and fresh river fish parading in a decadent pageant across ever replenishing platters. Over hours long meals I met the staff of the Yi Chong school including two other foreign teachers. I quickly bonded with the older of the two, an inspiring young gentleman named Kyle, who shared my interests in comparative spirituality, new – age philosophy, and as it would later turn out, celebratory drinking. As coincidence, it was also his birthday that weekend, and so I would have someone to toast after all...I girded my stomach for the onslaught and dug in for another day of revelry.

The next morning opened with another official school assembly, the collection of an even larger bouquet of ceremonial flowers (22 this time!) and an assembly on the front lawn of the Yi Chong school, highlighted by inspiring speeches from Kyle and Principal Joe. At the dinner my hosts gave me my first Chinese name which, phonetically spoken, was dun kie luh – one more syllable than Kyle's Kie luh. I forget what it means exactly – whether it means 'great bear desire' or 'works well with others,' I cannot say. You see, the senior teacher at Yi Chong was a fairly manic drinker, and he made a point of filling our glasses with rice wine to the point of overflowing. It is indeed a miracle that I have retained any memories of the evening at all. Apparently I was leading the foreign teachers in rounds of Disney standards, in between my rounds of Bi j'io, an especially potent distillation of Chinese rice wine.

The term 'rice wine' is itself a bit of a misnomer. While most traditional wine hovers at around 14-16% alcohol by volume, rice wine sears the gullet at an astonishing 56%. The brew is surprisingly palatable strangely sweet, and a trifle doughy besides. In 'socialist' China there is no state tax on liquor, and so this nostrum costs an average of fifteen cents for a shot of intermediate quality. Understand, then, the distinct combination of love and fear that most Chinese reserve for this potent brew. The teachers at Yi Chong were pouring it by the unadulterated glassful, which explains some of the pictures from that evening's festivities.

We drank that day in lunch and at dinner, and in between saw the Three Georges Dam. It was suitably massive. Sadly, the Gods would not cooperate, perhaps angered in man's mastery over their masterwork, and intermittent showers veiled the enormity in a perpetual mist. The sense of mystery we experienced on the scene is lost in the majority of our my grey-scale photographs, though the weather cleared just in time to snap some dusky shots which give some feel to the majesty of the Chinese countryside. As dusk closed around the car, we settled in for yet another meal.

Dinner that evening meant a fresh batch of exotic liquors culminating in a colossal birthday cake - later to be tossed gleefully from a taxi cab into the densely thicketed Yi Chong suburbs. That night Kyle and I went out roller skating with his students, an evening that would hardly be possible in the overly protective states. Due to a combination of factors, (ok, mostly the rice wine) any trace of body control I have come to possess scattered like roaches under a fridge the moment I tipsily skittered across the freshly waxed pine. Picture a weasel ball nailed to a two by four and you'll get a glimpse of my skating form, but damn if I didn't have fun, laughing from freshly purpled knees. I think I even enjoyed the bruises – for looking back at my childhood, every cherished memory was a badge of honor pinned on by its own distinct bruise. But that's the spirit of adventure, that dangerous pleasure whose very disregard for safety in the moment ensures its own longevity in the mind.

We were able to secure a direct flight back to Xi'an, sparing me the China train drain. My stomach soon returned to normal after day of green tea and oatmeal, but I bear no illusions as to the source of the disturbance – train food and rice wine are a Trojan horse that could sack any fortress, and it certainly toppled mine. For all my quibbling misfortunes, I had a great time, met a wonderful new friend in Kyle, and saw some sights that I certainly would've missed out on otherwise. Yes, I will be uncomfortable in this strange, vast, venturesome new world. Yet, the more I get pushed out of my comfort zone, the more I feel challenged, out of place, and yes, a little queasy, the more memories I constantly accrue. Reading over Principal Joe's translation of the Dao the next week, this phrase from chapter 22 jumped off the page like a Yang-Tze river trout.

The ancients say:

"He who yields will have the whole."
Are these merely empty words? 

No. Eventually he gets the whole.

'Go with the flow, and the flow will come to you.' Like the great Yang – Tze, living in China is like flowing in a mighty river. Yet unlike the Yang-tze I will not be damming up this experience – I lack the engineering skills, and besides, the project would be far too Confucian for my taste. Like Lao-Tze advised, I think I'll just release my inhibitions, let go my apprehension, and enjoy the bumpy ride.