Camel Cowboy - Episode I

I am not a Camel Cowboy yet, but will be soon.

For the October Holiday, I and eight friends will be piling into a van and driving 750 miles in 15 hours to the western city of Yinchuan. Ted not only has his Beijing driver's lisence, but has rented a van for this voyage, this grand adventure. Even though every time he shifts is like a birthing contraction (I don't speak from experience, but the target of that analogy was mothers. I love you Mom!), but just because the Ted-man drives like Chris Farely acts, there is no reason to fret my loved ones. We are in good hands.

When we arrive we will mount camels and ride into the Gobi Desert. We are going to become camel cowboys for three days as we ride, camp, and soak in the blue skies and serenity of it all.

Episode II is coming upon my return...

Racing the Sun

I ate Peking Duck tonight and it was magical; but last night I raced the sun.

I finished teaching at 4:30 yesterday, pedaled home, slipped on the slippers and wondered what to do with a rare free night here in the Big B. Then as I sat down to read about the upcoming Packers Tuesday Morning Football game against the Bears (Tuesday Morning Football doesn’t have the same ring as MNF). Then I realized that I was in Beijing on a brilliantly blue mid-September day, and here I was about to read some analysts analysis of a game that has yet to be played – farts in the wind.

I thought, “Who do I think I am? How dare I put JS Online over a smog-less sunset.”

So I slipped off the slippers and hopped on the DeLorean and pedaled in pursuit of an adventure. I was racing the sun. As it sank in the west I sped south to Jingshan Park. This park is a manmade hill just north of the Forbidden City. Emperors believed that cold and evil winds blew from the north, thus this fake mountain was built to protect his highness from the sinister northern winds. Thank you northern winds, because Jingshan Park is the perfect spot to catch a Beijing sunset. I rolled into the park with no time to spare. I paid my two qui entrance fee (30 cents) and scampered up the steps to the pagoda cresting the hill like a cherry on top of a dome of custard (from Oscar’s) and wound my way through a battalion of photographers that flocked to the park’s cherry to inhale the breathtaking sunset.

I whipped out the Rebel and began to shoot just as the orange slice slid behind the teeth of the mountains in the distance. The sun saw my face at dusk and now sees yours yawning.

What an unselfish fiery orb.

Crash Gordon

If I was a superhero, my name would be Crash Gordon.

I had two minor, bloodless crashes in the span of 1.17 hours today. If I would have crashed once more that would have been a hat trick...

Crash #1

During lunch break, Werner and I decided to bike to Helen's to sup and sip free coffee (if you know the person who invented Free Coffee Mondays, give him / her / it a hug for me). I, astride the glorious steel steed: the DeLorean, am pedaling fast yet wisely. I am turning left, a car perpendicular to me is turning right. He thought I was going to brake. I thought he was going to brake. He did brake, a little late, but better than nothing. I swerved so as not to harm the DeLorean (DeLorean first, shiny 2011 black Audi second). As I swerve to my right I find myself pedaling at an oncoming bus. To preserve the DeLorean’s 1947 glory, I swerve left again and save my life but in doing my right handle bar forcefully and screechily introduces herself to the bus door. I didn’t fall to the pavement, but caught my balance with something other than grace. The bus stopped and the bus striver seemed rather peeved, but I just rubbed off the scuff with my finger and smiled (40 percent of the time, the smile works all the time). He stared at me for a few seconds muttered something scathing under his breath (probably commenting on how my socks don’t match my face) and drives off. I boarded my faithful steed and discovered I lost 97.8 percent of my brake responsiveness, so I’m currently perfecting the “Flinstone Shuffle.”

Crash #2

Approximately 1.17 hours later that Monday afternoon, Werner and I were pedaling out of Helen’s, free coffee sloshing in our stomachs, we turn the corner and I gently slam into this biker who decided not to adjust his course upon seeing a large gringo donning aviators. Our front tires politely collided, we made eye contact, both sort of chuckled and pedaled off. Definitely the best crash I’ve ever had.

It’s only thanks to His protective hand that I am alive and perspiring now. It’s sort of surprising that there aren’t more collisions in this city – with the amount of humanity pedaling and honking on those streets, weaving amongst each other like ants in a hurry.

Thank you Father.

Well, the hat trick will have to wait for another day.

Cloud Planting

I had no idea that clouds could be planted.

Planting clouds, you would think it’s something from a Dr. Seuss book – but it happens here in the Orient. If the government wants there to be a smog-free day (national holiday, Olympics, Mr. Ed appearance, etc.) the government shoots a rocket containing silver iodine within, which seeds clouds and brings about rain to dissolve the smoggy veil. Too insane to be true.

I bet He is simply giggling (a manly giggle of course) at us ants below thinking we’re somebodies because we plant clouds. Check out Job 38 and be humbled you cloud planters…

Anyway, thanks to my cloud planting friends we had two days of a beautiful blue sky here in the Big B. It was so liberating and refreshing. It wasn’t quite a Utah blue Dad, but it was a fresh smog-less blue. I love Beijing. It is my new home. The food, people, sites, and mission is unbeatable – but the smog is the one grey flaw. It is like a moist colorless sheet that covers your face with suffocating laughter.

Vision – hazy.

Breathing – choppy.

Me – trapped in a loaf of colorlessness.

But, for two days the sun smiled and the blue army of the sky fought the good fight against the forces of the hazy grey legions. And it was glorious. My cloud planting friends planted clouds which rained for two days before the Mid Autumn Festival – a celebration of the full moon. And so, we could see a full moon and few brave stars for two nights. It was liberating.

In the morning, Mike (FOC legend and brother) and I biked to Tiananmen Square – 16ish mile ride round trip. It was the perfect day to saddle up the D’Lorean and pedal like there was no tomorrow. It’s kind of comforting to be living in the Big B, on my bike, with my cell phone in my pocket, in my city; and to see tourists with their back packs resting on their stomachs, sunglasses propped on their skulls, maps blowing in the wind with a look of rushed look on their faces that screams, “I just want to shower, sit down, and have a brew.” It’s kind of nice to not feel rushed, to see the touristy things when I see them – not trying to squeeze them all in within 49.2 hours.

Mike and I stopped by some hutongs: what Beijing used to be – a maze of homes surrounding a courtyard. They are fascinating – kind of like a subdivision but 1/13^th the size. Shrunken mazes of living. Mike told me that Beijing is bulldozing these hutongs faster than you can say, “kung pao chicken.” By razing these living connections to the past in place of high rise apartments – cement towers standing tall but not knowing why.

So as we were exploring this hutong right across the street from the Forbidden City, we bumped into a man who lived there. Mike and him were talking in Mandarin, so I picked up the occasional “kung pao and General Tsao” but other than that I was merely a mute observer. After about 13 minutes, I realized that I was witnessing a witness. And as I looked into the blue sky I thought of the cloud planters, and I thought how much I would rather plant this kind of seed, a seed that lasts, a seed that doesn’t smog over, a seed worth planting a thousand time over.

Thank you cloud planters; but I’d rather plant something more.

- m -

Orbits Collide

There are times when orbits collide. It is no coincidence. It is the hand of Him.

Last week at Beida (where Matt and I teach) we were holding our bowls of vittles in the teacher's cafeteria, standing awkwardly looking for a place to sit - socially naked, like two freshman girls on the first day of high school.

There were no tables open.

So Werner and I sidled up to a man eating kung pao chicken in solitude. We introduced ourselves, but it was clear that the Kung Pao Chicken Man was not an English speaker. Plus, even if he was a Shakespearian scholar and was as smooth a speaker as George W. Bush, it still would have been a quiet meal. You see, Beijing men don’t just eat, they eat with purpose. Both elbows are anchored to the table for stability, back bent at 72 degrees to ensure a quick bowl to mouth voyage, neck bent southward, eyes focused on the prize. These men do not eat for enjoyment, they do so for survival – there is a primal competitiveness in how they slurp, suckle, and swallow. I am in awe. Anyway as the Kung Pao Chicken Man is inhaling his food, a young lady stops by our table and starts talking to the Kung Pao Chicken Man.

They must be friends.

She introduces herself to us. She speaks in near flawless English. Her name is Nancy (not really, but I’d rather not use her real name). Nancy sits down with Matt and I as we chat about everything from our favorite Beijing foods, to her year abroad in England, to our families. I told her about studies that we lead, how we speak English and talk about Him. She said she was curious.

We ate lunch with Nancy two more times that week. I asked if she would be interested in coming to Tuesday night study. She said, “Giddiup.” (Actually she said, “Yes,” but “Giddiup” has a bit more pizzazz.) So I picked up my friend from the subway and brought her to our study and we sat in a circle of 17 friends and explored a beautiful story about a rebellious son who leaves home in a fit of arrogance and returns smelling like a pig; and his father is waiting for him, and when he’s a long way off the father runs to him with tears streaking down his cheeks and embraces the one who had spat in his face and whispers, “Welcome home.”

There were no tables open in the cafeteria that afternoon.

It was no coincidence that Matt and I sat with the Kung Pao Chicken Man. He wanted us to sit there, so that our orbits would collide with Nancy’s. Hopefully there will be eternal ripples…

- m -