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Having been in the Middle Kingdom now for over 6 weeks, my Chinese has improved tremendously.  However, a series of unfortunate events have highlighted a major gap in my vocabulary.  I don’t know how to express What the Fuck?! in Mandarin.

You would be amazed at the multitude of opportunities that Sarah and I have encountered that simply cry out for this eloquent response.  In chronological order: 

• A freakish Tibetan sandstorm delays your flight by 31 hours.  The airport is devoid of helpful people, and you’re only informed about the delays until after the 8th hour - what the fuck?!
• The queue to purchase train tickets during the madness of Chinese New Year is at least an hour’s wait.  30 minutes into it, people start blatantly cutting to the front of the line - what the fuck?!
• 5 hours into a 25 hour train ride, someone ties a still alive-and-shitting chicken underneath your seat.  It absolutely reeks and when agitated likes pecking at your leg - what the fuck?!
• On that same train, a man who looks like he hasn’t showered in a week decides to sleep with his greasy head resting on your shoulder - what the fuck?!
• While you’re takng a nap on a table, and someone decides it’s a good idea to sit on the aforementioned table so that their ass crack is perfectly aligned with your nose - what the fuck?!
• The train station sells over 40 standing-room-only tickets per train car for that wonderful 25 hour train ride - what the fuck?!
• The grandmother sitting across from you repeatedly hulks up phlegm and spits them right at your feet - what the fuck?!
• The local market is selling bloody, vein-covered muck that Sarah swears looks like fetus - what the fuck?!
• You check in to a hotel room for all of 5 minutes, decide not to stay, and the owner demands that you pay for a 1/2 day - what the fuck?!

Thankfully, things have turned up for us, and we can laugh about these situations now.  I suppose its the perils of traveling that make up half of the adventure. 

I knew Tibet’s lunar new year, Losar, would be something special, but nothing could prepare me for the spectacle that ensued. I can still feel the echo of adrenaline coursing through my veins.

Sarah and I had waited patiently in the Barkhor Square with some fellow travelers and Tibetan friends for evening to fall. There were squads of jing cha patroling the area, as well as a fire truck clearly on stand by, yet all was quiet. Then, according to some unspoken cue, Lhasa erupted.

Throughout the city’s maze of alleyways, small sparklers and hand shells were being fired. We ducked into a narrow street to get a closer look - just as things got interesting. One after another, the rat-tat-tat machine gun of chains of firecrackers rang virtually non-stop in our ears. Someone had set a small pile of rubbish ablaze in the middle of the street. Tibetans emerged from their homes to add fiery armfuls of cardboard and straw - attempting to burn away their troubles in the coming year. More lengths of firecrackers were tossed into the mix, violently exploding within the raging inferno.

The heavier ammunition was slowly brought out, and Lhasa lit up in a riot of colors. Fireworks as impressive as any I’ve seen in the US blanketed the sky in every direction. The smoldering remains of exhausted explosives were now steadily raining down, forcing observers to seek cover. Billowing smoke from both fire and fireworks were making it difficult to breath. So this is what a war zone is like.

Yet a war zone this was not. We could just make out beaming Tibetan faces through the haze, and every now and then a delighted scream would pierce the cacaphony when a child danced too close to the pyrotechnics. The atmosphere was simply electrifying and you couldn’t help but be swept up in this unbridled expression of joy.

Perhaps most amazing, is that this is only the first night of the festivities. I can’t fathom what other kinds of new experiences the remainder of Losar has in store.

I’ve recently become acquainted with a Canadian radio host working in China who shared with me an incredible insider’s perspective on how the PRC maintains an iron grip on the media.  Consider that:

• Major broadcast centers must be based in Beijing, so that the political elite can keep the media close at hand.
• Security is taken very seriously - the aforementioned broadcast centers all have guards armed with assault rifles deployed in their lobbies. 
• DJs are all issued lengthy lists of forbidden topics each week, which include unfavorable news stories and certain personalities. 
• All programming is carefully scripted and pre-recorded.  These recordings undergo scrutiny from at least 4 officials before being played over the air.
• Senior leadership and even middle management is composed entirely of party members. 
• Taiwan can’t even be mentioned in the same context as other independent nations, such as Korea or Japan.  Instead, it must be listed along with the rest of China’s provinces.
• Many Taiwanese artists that refer to Taiwan as independent are banned.  Yet Western songs with curse words can be freely played.

Its absolutely astounded by just how deep this censorship rabbit hole goes.

While hanging out in the small village of Wutunsi, I happened to meet an artist.  He was the resident thangka instructor at one of the two monasteries for which Wutunsi is known for, and had been studying the Tibetan Buddhist painting style for the past 25 years.  As you might imagine, his thangkas are incredibly intricate and undeniably mesmerizing. 

Like all artists, he is looking to build a global following for his work.  Unfortunately, he has two strikes against him - he is Tibetan, and his art is religious in nature.  Every attempt at putting his work online has been ruthlessly censored by the PRC.  I’ve had my own minor issues with censorship in China, but they don’t begin to compare to the frustration felt by an artist unable to freely express himself.

While I have mixed opinions about many of China’s other policies, I believe strongly in the freedom of information.  So for what it’s worth, here’s my small contribution to the cause:

His name is Lo San Long Da.  If you’re interested in contacting him about his fantastic collection, send mail to the Wutong Up Monastery near Tongren in the Qinghai province of the People’s Republic of China.

I’ve always understood from a theoretical perspective why outsourcing is such an attractive option for many US companies. But its only in the past couple of weeks that I’ve developed a far more concrete appreciation for the economic forces involved.

Traveling in China is not unlike constantly swimming upstream through a torrent of human flesh. There’s a suffocating crush of people everywhere you go - in restaurants, on the streets, at the ticket counter. There’s simply no escaping it. This makes it easy to see how the cost of Chinese labor can be one of the cheapest commodities available. Equally obvious is the impact that cheap labor has on everyday life.

Clever innovators in the Western world have developed innumerable technologies which exponentially increase the productivity of a single person. From what I’ve seen thus far, little of this has made its way to China:

• In Bejing, I passed a construction site which required some cables to be strung through a section of sewers. Rather than renting a vehicle with some horsepower to quickly tow everything into place, the construction firm hired over a dozen men to collectively (and ineffectively) tug at the cables, all the while yelling the Chinese equivalent of “heave-ho.”
• One of the hotels that I stayed at had the exact same card-based lock configuration installed in every room. It was cheaper for management to pay someone to carry the one key card they had, and be available around the clock to unlock the door for guests as needed, than to hand out distinct key cards for each room.
• Every retail establishment I hazarded had at least a 5-to-1 ratio of sales people to customers. I was swarmed every time I came within arms reach of a given counter. Its a stark contrast to US supermarkets, which are clearly moving towards automated check out.