Reality Equation

To the streets of Hefei

Pace of life here has changed since we got to get out of our dorms and out on to streets of Hefei. Anhui Agricultural University itself is huge, with massive structures and wide, open areas. Look in any one direction, and, speak French or not, you’ll exclaim, ‘Que de monde!’ under your breath. You will be met with a sea of people, all xúesheng (students), going someplace or just studying/lounging out on the lawn. It’s quite a sight.

I also noticed that a lot of the vegetation is quite similar to that of Nepal (not surprisingly), and trees here seem a lot more familiar to me here. Even some of the older buildings share resemblances with houses in Kathmandu and Patan, especially the small red-brick ones with thatched roofs and iron doors. And given that Nepal gets most of its household items from China, it’s not unusual that every once in a while I notice little things I’m oddly very familiar with. Like light switches. And door handles, sitting stools, water heaters (’electric geysers’), mercury thermometers, cooking utensils, water melons. (I know, I know, but water melons could be considered a household item if you think about it). It’s a strange feeling.

We now have classes in a six-storied building next to the Foreign Languages mega-structure. On the sixth floor. Room 603 has view overlooking cranes and rapidly-rising new buildings. The environment is different from our previous ‘classroom’ of the balcony. Here’s there’s an office table with a four-way partition, a white board to write stuff in and, of course, a water heater and a tea set. Classes there these last few days have been pleasant: the room is brightly-lit, there’s a césǔo (restroom) close by, there’s a constant flow of hot tea, and getting to class is a bit (just a bit) of an exercise.

The stairs are wide. The reason I mention this seemingly rather random fact is because it’s important: there are no elevators, so  you have to run up five flights of stairs if you end up somehow being late to class. Which isn’t entirely implausible, given the classroom is around a 15- to 20- minute walk from the dorms, and it’s easy to underestimate the duration it takes to walk through (or around) campus on a hot, humid day to get there. Nevertheless, the walk to class is always something to look forward to.

Michael Hogan and I usually leave the dorms to get to our first class (which starts at nine) at around 8:20am, and take the longer route around campus so we get to walk down the low-profile, narrow-ish street that runs along the east end of campus. The street is reminiscent of parts of Bangkok in that it’s littered with small local vendors selling books, clothing, stationary, food in push-carts. If you’ve ever been to Aasan in Kathmandu, you get the idea. If you haven’t, the photo should help. This street is always crowded with students, and everyone seems like they have places to go, things to do. In this sea of people, a few things stand out: open umbrellas that most girls carry to protect themselves from the sun, the occasional car, and us.

Aside from scooters that seem to be fitted with squealing mice for breaks (really, what makes that sound?), we seem to be the loudest people on the street. And, as if the way we look and talk wasn’t enough, we speak in this odd, foreign language called yīngwén. Walking along the path, strafing sideways every once a while to make way for a passing moped or scooter, Michael will excitedly explain—gestures and all—how what we’re seeing connects to ideas and experiments in neuroscience, much to the amusement of everyone around us.

“Hey, how are you?” this random person asks Michael. “How’reyoudoing” this other guy grins at me. A kid in a bike stopped—literally stopped—in front of us once and just looked at us. Small guy, big eyes. Michael smiles and says, “Hey, nǐ hǎo“, and the kid runs away (well, on his bike) in a manner that would suggest he’d just stumbled on a small, striped tabby cat that politely tipped his hat and said, in perfect Queens English accent, “Excuse me”.

In other words, we’re foreigners here, and there’s no two ways about that. And the camera that’s always on my pocket, and usually in my hands as I’m taking photos of almost everything I come across, doesn’t help.

Still, I want to understand local life at Hefei. The life of of thousands of students, street vendors, teachers, kids. And although there will always be a certain distance, the best way I find is to just dive in, find a place and start a conversation. Try at least one new local cuisine a day, may be. I’ve picked up several words that way, and find it’s the best way to practice real-world Chinese. Because no matter how much emphasis you put on learning tones, the vocabulary and characters in the classroom, communicating and being understood by the locals is a whole different challenge.

After buying a coconut for the coconut juice—yes, the same kind you find in Bangkok!—I thought I’d take a photo for the blog. You’d think that if the word you’re trying to say is wǒ kèyì (’I can’), and you accidentally said kèyǐ (wrong tone on the second syllable) while pointing to your camera, that they’d make out from the context that I’m trying to ask if I can take photos. Not the case.

I’ve tried saying the same word in all four (five, in fact) tones, so at least one of them will be the word I’m looking for. This exercise, however, hardly works, and it gets very ridiculous very quickly. But the more you get out there and use the language, the sharper you’ll be in your to not just ability remember and say things, but also to comprehend what other say.

(Oh, and I find people don’t mind photographs much, if at all, here. Unless it’s something personal, or you’re taking photographs of specific people, you can usually just go ahead and take the photo).