Shifting Gears (Part 3): from China to Eastern Europe

I had been living and working in China for 4 years, but my interest in the Soviet Bloc had sparked long before when I began studying Russian as an adolescent. It was fanned into flame through Russian friends in high school, after which I majored in Soviet area studies, Russian language and literature, and South Slavic languages at university.

The year was then 1990. I decided to spend some time in bustling Hong Kong to reflect on the recent changes that had been occurring in China and Eastern Europe.

The modernity of Hong Kong was overwhelming but refreshing. There, in that megalopolitan shopping center, I gained the clarity of mind that it was finally time to shift gears:

“One ticket for September 14,” I requested at the travel agency.

“No way, José, that’s too soon,” he jided, checking the schedule. “You’ll have to shoot for a week or two later. The train’s all booked.”

“Check again,” I pleaded. “I’m sure there’s room for one more on the fourteenth.”

Flipping through some files, “Hmm! There’re a ticket left,” he confirmed. “Strange, though, we’re usually all sold-out by now.”

“That must be mine!” I exulted.

Booking was the easy part. What the future held would demand an extra pinch of stamina. The train ride from Hong Kong to Beijing would take two days. I allowed myself two extra days in Beijing for the run-around in obtaining transit visas from Russian and Romanian embassies and a three-month tourist visa for Bulgaria.

I was scheduled to board the Trans-Siberian Railway in Beijing on September 14, which would have me arrive in Moscow six days later. To complete the long haul after a two-day layover in Moscow, I would ride the last forty-eight hours south, passing through the Ukraine, Moldavia, and Romania, on down to Sofia, Bulgaria.

At least the price was right—$164 for the total ticket!

Follow the series:

Part 1: My Romance with the Color Red
Part 2: Cracks in the Berlin Wall
Part 4: Calm, Cool, and...Calamity?

Part 5: Munching in Moscow: Part 5

Photo Berlin Wall by Noir GNU Free Documentation License at Wikipedia.

Photo by Pwojdacz, Creative Commons Attribution 3.0License at Wikipedia.

Cracks in the Berlin Wall: Part 2

The year was 1990. I had been living and working in China already for 4 years. The winds of democracy were blowing across the continent westward. Cracks were appearing in the Berlin Wall.

In China, there was no bustle among shoppers, no caroling in the streets. The jingle of Yuletide was nowhere to be found. Even Jack Frost was confined to a cold simple snap in the air. The only signs of Christmas were the slushy streets and an arctic chill.

Short-wave frequencies beamed in the news. The winds of democracy had died down in China, while whirlwinds of revolution were piping up all throughout Eastern Europe.

Then, the headlines rocked us: `Ceauscescu is Dead’, `The Berlin Wall has Fallen’, `Eastern Europe is Free’.

The events in the West sounded so distant, almost unreal. Yet history was unfolding—and I wanted to have a part in it!

Follow the series:

Part 1: My Romance with the Color Red
Part 3: Shifting Gears: from China to Eastern Europe
Part 4: Calm, Cool, and...Calamity?

Part 5: Munching in Moscow: Part 5

Photo Berlin Wall by Noir GNU Free Documentation License at Wikipedia.

China During the Times of Marco Polo

The Yuan Dynasty (1271-1368) was established by the Mongol leader, Kublai Khan, who was the grandson of Genghis Khan—founder of the largest and most contiguous empire in recorded history.

Kublai Khan rose to legendary fame in Europe, since he was the emperor who entertained Marco Polo (photo above)!

The clothing of the Mongols was simple, owing to a less-developed culture and economy. Instead of influencing the Han, therefore, the Mongols benefited greatly from their lifestyle.

The predominant garment during this period for Han men was the robe, which was a bit looser than the previous dynasty.

Besides the prominence of the dragon and phoenix on clothing, colors expanded into numerous shades. Brown totaled 20 in all with descriptive names like “onion white brown.” At times, a gold thread was woven through the colors.

The Mongols wore long robes with tight sleeves and a pleated, flared section from the waist down. They donned a very wide, corrugated belt at the waist, which was sown to the garment.

As for headgear, the Han men wore the fu tou, which, fashioned out of lacquered gauze, contained two tails that fell behind the head.

The Mongols parted their hair into the form of a cross, shaving the head in the back and trimming the front into various shapes. They wore rattan hats, which were either round or square.

Photo Public Domain at Wikipedia.
Photo by smartneddy, GNU Free Documentation License at Wiki Commons.

Focus on China—From Ming to Qing

In yesterday’s article, Menswear Before Mao, I mentioned how the Qing Dynasty imposed the “long shirt,” or chang shan, replacing the common menswear of the previous dynasty, which was the Ming Dynasty (1368-1644).

In turn, the Ming Dynasty had led massive reforms concerning dress—abolishing the traditional men’s attire of the previous dynasty, which was the Mongolian-led Yuan Dynasty (1271-1368).

The Ming Dynasty spent 20 years restoring and codifying the traditional dress of the Han people.

Interestingly, the Ming Dynasty was the last dynasty led by the Han Chinese, whose attire was termed the hanfu.

Menswear consisted of loose robes with wide sleeves and a round neckline. The unique item, however, was the embroidered square patch across the chest, the design and stitching of which varied with rank and status.

The headwear of the Ming officials is of particular interest, consisting of 2 winged flaps on each side and called the futou.

Throughout both the Ming and Qing Dynasties, men’s attire not only marked a man’s social class but also ethnicity.

Photo of official Jiang Shunfu, Public Domain at Wikipedia.

Focus on China—Menswear Before Mao

Although there were periods in Chinese history when men wore pants, such as in the Qin Dynasty (221-207 BC) and the Southern and Northern Dynasty (420-589), Chinese menswear has followed an interesting pattern for millennia.

The key elements include a type of robe with lapel (sometimes adjoined by a collar), waistband or belt, and sleeves. The changes in these characteristics set the trends for each dynasty. The most predominant change occurred in the sleeves, which ranged anywhere from narrow to enormous wing-like flaps.

Picking up where we left off in the last article, Han Fashion, prior to 1912 Chinese men wore the chángshān, which can be seen by Sun Yat-sen’s attire (photo left).

The changshan was originally imposed on Chinese men by the Qing Dynasty, China’s last dynasty (17th-20th centuries), replacing the traditional male dress of the previous dynasty. Changshan simply meant “long shirt.”

Eventually the changshan became the formal dress of Chinese men, who sported it with the magua, or ‘riding jacket’. First called the “victory jacket,” the magua has also become known as the “mandarin jacket” (photo left).

As for grooming during the Qing Dynasty, Han men adopted the practice of shaving part of their heads, braiding the remaining hair into a ponytail.

The men then sported different types of conical caps, depending on the occasion. Color and shape, however, was determined by the man’s grade and social status.

Interestingly, the Qinq Dynasty was founded by the Manchu clan, which was actually not Han but rather Tungus. Manchu menswear differed entirely from that of the Han (photo top).

Today, the Manchu have been completely assimilated and are nearly extinct, although many Han can claim Manchu ancestry.

Photo Sun Yat-sen Public Domain at Wikipedia.
Photo Outu GNU Free Documentation License at Wikipedia.

Han Fashion—Focus on China

(Guizhou, China 1986) As you can see by the photo above, when I lived in China many Han Chinese still wore a traditional form of dress, whereas I dressed in what the Han men considered modern Chinese clothing. But, before we get to their clothing, who are the Han?

Most Chinese are descendants of the Han majority, which is actually the largest ethnic group in the world, sometimes referring to itself as “Descendants of the Dragon.”

The name Han comes from the Han Dynasty (206 BC–220 AD), which was preceded by the Qin Dynasty (221–206 BCE). Some southern Han Chinese even call themselves “the people of Tang,” referring to the Tang Dynasty (618-907).

Nevertheless, most Han Chinese today label themselves “the Hua people” (húarén) or “the Middle Kingdom people” (Zhōnggúorén).

As for dress, almost all Chinese Han men have adopted modern western clothing; but this was not always the case. As a matter of fact, when I was living in the more remote areas of China in the 1980’s, men were just beginning to make the transition from traditional to Western looks.

For decades, the attire for men was what Westerners have come to term the “Mao suit,” which was still being sported by the majority of men in Guizhou, where I was living. Despite the name, however, the Mao suit did not completely originate with Mao Ze Dong.

The original name of the Mao suit is the Zhongshan suit, from Sun Zhongshan or Sun Yat-sen (1866-1925), the revolutionary leader who pioneered the Republic of China in 1912 by overthrowing the last of the Chinese emperors.

Previously, Sun Yat-sen had worn the clothing of the Qing dynasty, the last dynasty of China. At that time, men sported the chángshān (‘long shirt’). But due to the unpopularity of the Qing Dynasty with the masses, the “long shirt” was already being combined with Western jackets and the like.

When Sun Yat-sen established the Republic of China, he united elements from both Eastern and Western fashion. He demonstrated Eastern sensibilities in the new suit by placing 4 symmetrical pockets to portray balance and 5 buttons, which later came to symbolize the branches of the new government.

When Sun Yat-sen permitted the Chinese Communist Party to join his Nationalist Party, Chinese communist men adopted the new look as a symbol of their adherence. Later under the leadership of Mao Ze Dong, the suit emerged as symbol of proletarian unity.

Although considered formal attire by some older men and a casual outfit by the so-called peasants, the Mao suit was largely replaced in the 1990’s by Western suits and styles.

Photo top center Copyright Men's Fashion by Francesco.
Photo middle left, Sun Yat-sen, by Militaryace, Public Domain at Wikipedia.
Photo bottom, Hurley, Zhang, and Mao, Public Domain at Wikipedia.

Yi Fashion

Numbering over 7 million, the Yi people possess several names, such as Nuosu in China and Lo Lo in Vietnam and Thailand.

In China, the Yi people live mostly throughout Yunnan, Sichuan, Guangxi, and Guizhou, where I lived for 4 years. Typically, they are farmers, herders, and nomadic hunters.

The Yi language is closest to Burmese, even though it can be divided into a half dozen dialects. Some scholars claim that the Yi are descendants of the Tibetans.

Throughout history, the Yi people adhered to a matriarchal form society and government. In several areas, they practiced a complex version of slavery.

Yi men traditionally dressed in black with narrow sleeves and loose-fitting pants, often with a handkerchief on their head.

Photo by Sariw, Public Domain at Wikipedia.

The Song of the Dong

The Dong people number about 2.9 million and make up one of China’s 56 minority groups.

Some trace the appearance of the Dong to the Song Dynasty (960-1279) when they migrated southward due to the advancing Mongols; but other references place them as far back as the Qin Dynasty (221-206 BC).

Referring to themselves as Gaeml or Kam, the Dong have become renowned for their skillful carpentry and architectural creativity as with their preponderant towers and the covered bridge.

The Dong live mostly in Hunan, Guangxi, and Guizhou, where I lived for 4 years, and speak a language that belongs to the Kradai family, which has some commonality with Sino-Tibetian languages. The Dong language has 9 tones.

Dong dress is traditionally rich in silver jewelry, dyed woven fabrics, and embroideries of plants, animals, and legends with a color palette of blue, black, white, and purple.

Music and song plays a major role in the village life of the Dong people.


Photo by Jialiang Gao GNU Free Documentation License at Wikipedia.

Yao Men, Yao Women—the Differences Pervade Them All

One of the most striking differences between contemporary men and women of many minority groups throughout Southern China lies in their dress. This picture of Yao men and women demonstrates the point.

When I lived in China, minority women tended to dress in bright-colored garments that were highlighted with intricate embroideries and accents of silver, gold, and horn. The men, on the other hand, had adopted a type of recent Han clothing, which was drab and boring.

Traditionally, the Yao men wore belted jackets that were buttoned to the left and knickers—usually blue or black in color. In some regions, they curled their hair into a bun, which they wrapped with a red cloth, adorned with several pheasant feathers.

What’s more, the Yao have accumulated nearly 30 different names for themselves, all of which are based on their types of dress, accessories, and lifestyle. Historically, the Yao were experts in dying, embroidering, and weaving.

The Yao people are one of the 56 minorities in China, numbering 2.5 million people in all, living mostly throughout the mountainous regions of southern China, Vietnam, Laos, and Thailand.

The Yao can trace their origins back 2,000 years to northern China where they were known as the “savage Wuling tribes. Since that time, they have undergone migration from China between 15th-19th centuries due to revolts, persecution in Laos, and refugee status in Thailand, which entitled them to UN aide and refugee status.

Interestingly, the Yao people do not adhere to one language group but rather speak one of 4 completely different languages. The Yao people are now scattered across 130 nations.

Photo by Takeaway, GNU Free Documentation License at Wiki Commons.

Zhuang Fashion

Numbering about 16 million, the Zhuang people have lived throughout southern China longer than any other civilization and, now, constitute China’s largest minority.

Known as Bou Shung in their own language, the Zhuang people migrated southward into Southeast Asia in about 1100 AD to avoid conflict with the Han Chinese.

With 8 major dialects and 50 sub-dialects, the Zhuang language belongs to the Sino-Tibetian family and possesses 6 tones.

As for their music, the Zhuang lay claim to an immense copper drum, which, a half ton in weight, was developed over 2,000 years ago. Also dating back 2,000 years are the rich and colorful frescoes of the Zhuang people that have been discovered in 50 locations.

Sometime during the Tang Dynasty (618-907), the Zhuang developed a cotton fabric with raised designs of dyed velvety twisting and weave. Traditionally, Zhuang men wore long collar-less shirts girded at the waist, cloth shoes, and head cloths.

Photo by Rex Pe Copyright at Flickr, used with permission.

Miao People—All about Fashion

One of the largest minority groups with whom I had the most contact in China was with the Miao, who have dwelt in the Guizhou province for the past 2,000 years.

The Miao total about 9.6 million people, who are scattered not only throughout southern China but also Southeast Asia, where they arrived in the 18th century.

Outside China, the Miao are known as Mèo or H’Mông in Vietnam, Maew or Mong in Thailand, and Mun Lu-Myo in Burma. Although the Miao prefer to call themselves Hmong or Mong, their names do not end there.

Interestingly, Miao tribes classify themselves according to the colors and patterns of their clothing—White Hmong, Green Hmong, Black Hmong, and Striped Hmong, Red Miao, Flowery Miao.

Now that’s a fashion statement!

The Miao peoples produce textiles called “flower cloth,” which features intricate stitch work and embroidery of bold designs and bright, contrasting colors.

Some Miao tribes wear batik, which is created by dripping hot wax on white cloth that is then dipped in dye.

The most common of Miao patterns are flowers, birds, fish, butterflies, and fruit—each of which carries a specific meanings.

It is not uncommon for Miao women to adorn themselves in massive silver jewelry that takes the form of immense bullhorns and ornate crowns.



Photo by Cyril Massenet Creative Commons Attribution 2.0 License at Wiki Commons.
Photo by Michael Mooney Creative Commons Attribution 2.0 License at Wiki Commons.
Slideshow Copyright Men's Fashion by Francesco.

Guizhou Minorities in the 80's

Ninety percent of the population in the region where I resided could be classified under one heading: down-and-out poor. In other words, there were plenty of paupers, especially among the minority groups, who lived entirely distinct from the mainstream of Chinese “Hans.”

The minorities in our province were cut off from the outside world and subsisted on the petty provisions of third-world conditions and tribal superstitions. In their eyes, I was an alien from another galaxy; but just the same, I tried to reach out to them by providing medicine, clothing, and other basic commodities.

One cold day, I stopped by a cinder block hut of stone masons, who existed on cabbage and hot peppers. I proposed that we have dinner together. A progressive adolescent in the bunch cackled his excitement with “Oh, boy, coffee!” At sundown, I lugged three pounds of pork over to their hut. We gathered the wood, lit a bonfire, roasted the hot peppers, and had a decent meal and conversed about our different cultures.

Although in the next articles we will see the beautiful traditional dress of China’s minorities, in the 1980’s most men could not afford to wear anything other than the military blue or green version of the Mao suit.

Photos & slideshow Copyright Men's Fashion by Francesco.

Workers—Another Kind of Army: Focus on China

In tatters, rags, and out at the elbows, their weather-worn faces lit up the morning. On every advancing day that I legged it to class, they saluted me with an elated “ní hao.”[1] From dawn to dusk, they drudged away unwearyingly.

Chiseling through bedrock like human jackhammers and living bulldozers, they hauled away the debris by hand. Their heaves raised the highways; their hoes built the high rises. Not unlike hard labor convicts that bend might and main, they wasted their strength, almost in vain. What was their crime? They were peasants from the countryside out to make a dime.

Such brigades were common sights in every angle of the country. Outwardly, they were marked. Cloaked under a layer of dust, they wore faded army-blue or -green shirt jacks and patched baggy fatigues, which were hoisted about the waist with a three-cord rope. Teachers and officials snubbed them, branding them with the label: Chuánjūn—‘the Sichuan Army’.

As the name connotes, this army of workers came from Sichuan, the province just north of Guizhou that boasts a population of about 87 million. By the time I had arrived to China, the rural inhabitants of Sichuan had not yet heeded the 1-child policy and was bursting at the seams, forcing many men—both young and old—to roam the country in search of labor.

[1] ‘How are you?’ pronounced Knee? How.

Photos Copyright Men's Fashion by Francesco.

Two birds, One Stone: Focus on China

(Guiyang, Guizhou 1986-90) The most effective way to make friends in Guiyang was, without a shadow of a doubt, by eating out. The choice was modest—either the students’ cafeteria or the snackbar alley! My routine was to spend dinners with students in the cafeteria.

Everyone toted a metal bowl and utensils. The mess hall was an enormous airline-hanger-like structure, inside of which every kind of food imaginable was displayed in rectangular tin pans that were spread out on twenty to thirty tables. The cost per portion averaged from twenty to thirty cents.

Students squatted on the wall outside the hall and tossed out unwanted surprises (i.e., worms, stones, chips of coal, rancid meat, and UFO’s—‘unidentified fried objects’). These were all flung to the goldfish in the pond or to the local yokels who hung out at meal times: piggies, chickens, cats, dogs, and a friendly flock of fifty or so geese.
Photos Copyright Men's Fashion by Francesco.

When in Rome.... Focus on China

(Guiyang, Guizhou 1986-90) Sooner or later, I had to come to grips with the reality that it was more practical to ignore those homesick munchies and perfect my Chinese culinary skills, instead. By the second year, I had become proficient in making any living creature that creeped or crawled taste good. From the chopped ears, tongue, or snout to the pig’s feet, a sprinkle of soy sauce and a dash of hot pepper made any cut succulent.

Living in China stretched both my kitchen skills and ingenuity to the max. Fried water buffalo meat, pork tendons, and sea slugs presented the most defying challenges. Dismissing the art of tendons and slugs, I could never manage to get the former as tender as did the restaurant chefs. Mine turned out like brontosaurus burgers. What was the missing link?

There was never a dull moment in the kitchen. Some of the teachers on the team were American. Their first and last Thanksgiving dinner during their stay saw a spread of stir-fried lotus root with hot pepper, noodle soup with seaweed, browned potatoes with soy sauce, and—you got it—steamed white rice. Adding protein to their festive diet was trickier. A live bird had to be selected at the market, killed at home, and dipped into scalding hot water so that the feathers could be plucked.

As a young boy, I had seen my grandmother go through this procedure! She used to raise her own chickens and quails. One day, she called me into the kitchen and said in Neapolitan, “Now, I will teach you to cook!” as she cleavered the head off a chicken. “Never forget to hold the bird down firmly,” she cautioned, “or it will run allover the house...and what a mess!”

I wish for the sake of the other teachers that I had seen her prepare cornbread, but southern Italians did not eat cornbread, and just as well. The process in China was even more drawn out than the one with the birds. Fresh ears of corn were purchased and husked. The kernels then had to be dried in the sun by spreading them across a balcony or on the sidewalk. Platforms at the train station were favorite spreading areas. Once thoroughly dried, the corn was taken to a mill and ground into meal.

Photo Copyright Men's Fashion by Francesco.

Chomping around China: Focus on China

(Guiyang, Guizhou 1986) The most effective way to make friends was, without a shadow of a doubt, by eating out. The choice was modest—either the students’ cafeteria or the snackbar alley! My routine was to spend dinners with students in the cafeteria.

Everyone toted a metal bowl and utensils. The mess hall was an enormous airline-hanger-like structure, inside of which every kind of food imaginable was displayed in rectangular tin pans that were spread out on twenty to thirty tables. The cost per portion averaged from twenty to thirty cents.

Students squatted on the wall outside the hall and tossed out unwanted surprises (i.e., worms, stones, chips of coal, rancid meat, and UFO’s—‘unidentified fried objects’). These were all flung to the goldfish in the pond or to the local yokels who hung out at meal times: piggies, chickens, cats, dogs, and a friendly flock of fifty or so geese.

I relished the gusto of the local dives in Guizhou known in Chinese as xiăochī[1], where I oft times grabbed a quick breakfast or lunch. The scenario was enough to whet any hungry man’s appetite: chickens strutting on tables, dogs gobbling scraps beneath them, white cubes of pork fat sizzling to a crisp, hot peppers strung from the ceiling....

Daily delicacies were served in chipped, cracked bowls, which were “prudently” boiled after every use. I always procured my own metal bowl and wooden chopsticks, since hygiene was not one of the main ingredients.

Following a massive outbreak of gānyán[2] in Shanghai earlier that year, hepatitis became a rampant epidemic in our region, and after one visit to a student who lay sick in the contagious disease ward of the hospital, I thought it best to take extra precautions!

Raw vegetables spelled suicide. Garden salads, Caesar salads, and soup and salads were not only out of the question, they were unknown—and suicidal. Since it was expedient to boil drinking water for a minimum of twenty minutes, any makeshift bottled drinks or fresh beverages had to be foregone. Understandably, overcautious measures were the best policy.

The regional speciality was mamma’s five-cent bowl of noodle soup, which made a light lunch or midday snack. (Just hold the pork fat!) For the heartier eater, there was always an entrée of jiăozi[3] for twenty- five cents a serving. The average hash-house menu in our province posed no restrictions.

With the exclusion of the stools that I sat on and the Boeing I flew in on, practically anything and everything with legs or wings could be ordered, from fricasseed feline to jellyfish julienne. Deep-fried sticks of dough and a steaming glass of sweetened soy milk provided me with a palatable breakfast, especially in the raw of winter. It was not common practice for restaurants to post a menu, let alone the ingredients of their gastronomic creations.

One morning after class, instead of a routine underground sweet radish for breakfast, I stopped for a bowl of noodle soup at one of the xiaochi alleys alongside the students’ dorms. Nothing exceptionally peculiar alarmed my palate, so I paid a second visit a week later. As I slurped up the noodles using my chopsticks as a shovel, the short order cook leaned over the counter. The waitress stared at me with a smile.

“How ‘bout that!” she commented. “Foreigners like gŏuròu!”[4]

“Oh, I’ve never had the chance to savor dog,” I asserted in the height of presumption.

“Ha!” the two culinarians let the cat out of the bag. “Last week you wolfed down a bowl and you just lapped up another one now!”

Oh, how I felt like howling! I was too squeamish. Then, the flashbacks—memories of my childhood puppy. I grew queasier. Mental pictures of the wolf-like canines scavenging the streets raced through my mind. White with nausea, I excused myself, thinking, Time to vamoose before I—

Contrary to my initial nauseous reaction and with the exception of an occasional tooth, dog stew steeping with mint and hot chili peppers in a Mongolian hot pot turned into one of my favorite treats. I habitually ordered it for Christmas dinners. Well, until it lost its smack, that is.

Racing down a flight of stairs to the student canteen for breakfast one morn, I had a run-in with a dog that, once upon a time, roamed the campus. The bus driver and a cafeteria worker had savagely lassoed the innocent pup and hanged it in a noose from a wall. Clubbing it repeatedly to a cruel, slow death— To put it bluntly, being an eyewitness of this act of carnage laid my appetite for dog dinners to rest!

Sooner than later, the initial excitement of a foreign cuisine—a nibble of a băozi[5] here, a nosh of tángyuán[6] there—soon waned stale. A few weeks after my arrival, my body openly rebelled to the monotony of the region’s repertoire: rice for breakfast, rice for lunch, rice for dinner, and rice for dessert! Day in and day out, my mouth watered in vain for familiar tastes—lasagne, pizza, spaghetti alle vongole, gelati, biscotti, un panino, bread...anything! The easiest recipe to duplicate was rice pudding. Give me a break!

In a desperate scurry to satisfy these cravings, I concocted everything from A to izzard, or should I say gizzard?! I slapped together an improvisation of spaghetti with Chinese noodles and sautéed tomatoes. I churned out homemade ice cream by boiling and freezing a compound of water, powdered milk, sugar, and eggs. The other foreignors on the team concocted a mock oatmeal “fantasy” from soggy overcooked rice[7]—the evening leftovers that were recycled into students’ breakfast, which they seasoned with cinnamon, raisins, and honey to bamboozle the senses.

One of the major drawbacks in reproducing a non-artificial recipe from back home, which could be discernible to the taste buds, was the absence of recognizable oil. Even when wokked into Chinese dishes, the local brand required some time for acclimatization. Càiyóu[8] was the variety’s name—a thick nut-brown fluid extracted from rabe seeds that had to be refined. The refining process caused pitch-black fume to be emitted.

The Chinese poured the desired amount of this crude oil into a preheated wok before cooking. Once the impure vapors dissipated, the other ingredients could be tossed in and fried. Trying to cut corners one day, we nearly burned the house down while refining a pot of this caiyou, which self-ignited on the balcony and burned for twenty minutes under lid and cover. (Thank heavens we did not have an oil spill!) Thereafter, we refined spoonfuls at a time just before cooking.

Refined or not, this unrecog-nizable condiment definitely did not make an appetizing substitute in dishes that called for olive oil or butter! Potato chips and French fries were edible, but a little hard on digestion. Deserts were undermined in every respect. Pound cakes came out weighing a ton! Oatmeal cookies made with horse-feed oats and this oleaginous substance didn’t quite hit the spot, but they did have the kick of a horseshoed-hoof.

Early on in the first semester, I was moved to tears when I stumbled upon pre-sweetened instant coffee in the newly constructed department store. What a change of pace from the cup of boiling hot water and lotus root powder, which tasted like sweetened cornstarch! I had a treat in our third semester when a fellow Chinese teacher showed up at the door with a pack of roasted coffee that he had picked up on vacation, on Hainan Island.

I brewed the coffee in a pot and strained it with a pair of someone’s unused panty hose. After discovering that the colors ran, I deemed it best to resort to Turkish-style coffee—grains ‘n’ all. What a relief to find instant coffee towards the end of our stay! Oh how I missed my morning caffé latte made with freshly ground espresso beans!

It did not take much to please me when new products that resembled back-home favorites hit the shelves. Our team tracked down everything that that matched their taste buds: mock peanut butter—a type of thick gooey caramel sauce, something that would be used to top a sundae—and artificial cola made from chrysanthemum flowers.

My weakness was chocolate, which I found—bars waxy in texture but capable of duping the keenest of taste buds. Whenever we stumbled on something novel, we stocked up for the year!

[1] ‘Snack bars’ pronounced shall chur.
[2] ‘Hepatitis’.
[3] Pork-filled ‘dumplings’ dipped into a bowl of soy sauce, chopped ginger root and spring onions, minced garlic, and dry, crushed chili pepper.
[4] Literally ‘dog meat’, pronounced go row as in “go row your boat.”
[5] Steamed buns filled with pork, chunks of fat, and a sweet bean sauce.
[6] Round sticky-rice dumplings filled with crushed peanuts, coarse grain sugar, and bean paste, served hot in its boiled water.
[7] Called ‘muddy rice’—xī fàn, pronounced she fan.
[8] Literally ‘vegetable oil’, pronounced tsigh yo.

Photos various restaurants Copyright Men's Fashion by Francesco.

Social Divide: Focus on China

(Guiyang, Guizhou 1986-90) The “peasant” children, as they were called, won my heart. Waist high in stature and clod in floppy unlaced shoes, they paraded around campus, prancing about in their rolled up army fatigues with sleeves that drooped to their knees. Although uneducated, they showed all the signs of ingenuity—prodigies of the American “Spanky and his gang!”

With the advent of every new day, they came up with a striking new invention: tops spun to the crack of a whip, metal rings wheeled with iron rods, playing cards flipped by a smack of the hand on the ground after sealing a bet.

The barrier between us seemed insuperable. From a distance, the kids gustily shouted: “Kallo” (presumably to be interpreted as ‘hello’) and “Lo!” for ‘No’. One time, a red-blooded toddler breezed by me. Faking a limp, he happily shouted, “Bye-bye! Bye-bye!”[1] Onlooking students split with laughter.

I went to all lengths in striking up a conversation with the lads. With nervous giggles, they just prodded one another with their elbows, which was their cue to “cut and run.” After all, they had never seen a foreigner before!

But the bottom line was that hostilities had put an irreparable rift between peasants and teachers. An ever-expanding economy favored the social mobility of farmers, who vaunted their accumulated wealth in newly constructed homes that were heralded by thousands of firecrackers set off round-the-clock. Locked into the same low salary, teachers were behoved to dwell in outdated blocks of apartment complexes for life.

Consciously swimming against the tide, I did all I knew in showing as little partiality as possible to anyone and as much interest as possible in everyone, willing to take the risk that, in socializing with the “outcasts,” I would be classified among them.

Whatever the cost, I unabashedly set out to touch shoulders with the so-called “peasants.” My first hurdle in assimilating to their lifestyle was to grasp the local dialect, which got me an instant “in” with the “commoners” even when I butchered it. Since no school taught the local vernacular, I had to find an authentic classroom somewhere nearby.

Creatively wallpapered with crinkled newspapers and carpeted with nature’s dirt floor, “mamma’s” noodle house was my favorite greasy spoon. She was a heavyset peasant woman whose menu featured one speciality of the day—noodle soup with a heaping glob of pork fat, spiked with red hot pepper of the highest degree.

Her family and friends took a liking to me right off the bat. Mamma’s soup house was neutral ground for unhampered intercourse with society. Plus, the food shacks that mamma and others ran had an alluring affect on me. Oh! And with their help, I did master the dialect!

[1] The phrase “băi băi” in Chinese means ‘to walk with a limp’!

Photos Copyright Men's Fashion by Francesco.

First Impressions: Focus on China

(Guiyang, Guizhou, August 1986) After sixty-two hours of dirt, soot, and tears, the train pulled into the station of our destination. A welcome committee of officials from the university stood on the platform to greet us. We followed them out of the station and into the parking lot where we divided into two vans. I could not help but gape out the window at the city. It was a far cry from the modernity of Beijing—decidedly undeveloped, even bordering on Third World conditions, if I may say so inoffensively.

The officials briefed us on the program for the day and escorted us to our new quarters to freshen up for a luncheon reception banquet. The drive took no more than a half-hour. We rolled through the front gate of the institute. There was no university air about it. The school grounds and its neighboring “peasant” hamlet had grown up together—mingling, intertwining academic and agricultural life, and feeding upon one another for decades.

The institute furnished the elementary and middle school facilities for the villagers. The farmers provided the meat, eggs, and produce for the institute. The merger of the two gained momentum in the social upheaval of the mid-60’s known as the Cultural Revolution, when the country bumpkins took advantage of the anarchy and filtered onto campus, a move that interwove college life and country existence into an unyoked marriage. (Photo left campus market)

Students and teachers kicked a soccer ball on the same pasture where the farm animals grazed. Students and teachers alike swam in the same river, in which farmers dipped their pots to irrigate the fields. Students and teachers leaned their bikes on the trees to which water buffaloes were tied for early morn grazing. Students and teachers strutted down common paths where stray chickens and geese scrounged around for scraps. Students and teachers huddled in dorms alongside the villagers’ vegetable plots.

Our dwelling quarters were situated even further out in the fields. (And what a ruinous stench that was released into the air during fertilizing season!)[1] In our neck of the woods, there were no designated garbage collectors. On campus, most throw-aways were burned in incinerators. We were instructed to toss all garbage onto a trash pile right outside our stairwell. We complied by dumping our wastebaskets right out the window of the second floor.

We were under the impression that the rubbish heap would be converted into landfill until, one day, we almost scrapped a binful onto the janitor—a black flop-eared porker. His partner was an old mare that was harnessed to a wagon, donning a scarf and bells that announced: “Animals at Work.” In the natural way of things, the hog was promoted. Several times a week, a pig was butchered in the farmstead across the dirt road from our bedroom window.

To insure freshness, the show opened a few hours before the market came to life, at about three or four o’clock in the morning with the high-pitched oinks of the victim being dragged to the butchery. The squeals intensified to a peak of horror until the blade met the jugular. From that fatal point onward, as the blood was caught in a bucket for an oriental version of what we Italians in the old days called sanguinaccio[2], the roars deepened and piddled down to a low-note gurgle, at which time we could go back to sleep!

At sunrise, the “peasants,” as they were called for better or for worse, trickled onto campus in a caravan of horse carts, pull carts, donkey carts, and shoulder bars to display their prized produce and hardy handicrafts upon roughly hewn wooden tables or on the ground. Animal carcasses from the morning’s slaughter were hooked onto trees; slabs of meat cuttings were flopped across log tables. Dogs licking their chops scavenged the periphery of the market’s bustle, salivating in rabid wait to lick clean the tops of the meat tables after sales. Flies—

[1] Deep storage pits were conveniently dug, out of which farmers shovelled human excrement onto the crops. On this account, salads were not featured on most Chinese menus!
[2] Literally ‘ugly blood’, a type of “sweet pudding,” if you will, made by dumping sugar and meats into tubs of fresh pig’s blood, which jelled by the natural process of coagulation. He, he, he...one, two, three...“yuck!”



Photos & slideshow Copyright Men's Fashion by Francesco.

"Trained" Foriegn Experts: Focus on China

(1986-1990) Ticket lines in China were discouragingly long. Holidays stretched them out even longer. A thousand people spelled a day-and-a-half wait. To say the least, there was plenty of action. When the ticket window loomed in sight, some impatient souls leaped onto the shoulders of the mob and reached into the opening with a fist of cash. Once, a young woman who dared to cut in line found herself literally tossed into the street.

Occasionally, the crowds pressed so forcefully to block out any “butting-in” that I could not expand my rib cage enough to catch a breath of air. In the heat of tension, fights readily broke out. When riots flared up, the army was called in. Pickpockets were the biggest, most common nuisances. I ordinarily caught them, given that I am so super-ticklish.

Roughing it on future trips enabled me to mingle. For short treks, I rode the cattle car—hard seats. For longer distances, I went hard sleeper: those cars of a hundred passengers, who slept in three stories of hard-mattress bunk beds, containing a washroom with three sinks and a toilet, a dense cloud of cigarette smoke, and—not to forget—the propaganda that blasted day and night over the loud speakers.

On one trip, a little girl fell ill and vomited on her bunk right after I had boarded the train. I swung into action like a shot. After dashing off to the washroom to fetch the wastebasket, I cleaned up the mess. The remaining passengers sat motionless, or should I say, mesmerized.

Being late, as it was, and anticipating the lights to be turned out at any minute, we all retired to our beds. Bright and early the next day, a middle-aged woman sitting opposite me threw out the question.

“Why did a foreigner help the sick child,” she braved, “while we Chinese didn’t even lift a finger?”

So, what about the menswear? Still 1 more day on the train!

Photo by Vmenkov Copyleft at Wiki Commons.
Photo by Steve Jurvetson, Copyright Creative Commons Attribution License at Wiki Commons.