Lost on Planet China: One Man's Attempt to Understand the World's Most Mystifying Nation Read Online Free PDF
Author: J. Maarten Troost
table. Right, I thought. There’s pee in the ashtrays. In the taxi, I had briefly toyed with the idea of relaxing my no-smoking rule to “No smoking in North America.” But the prospect of stubbing out a smoke in a pond of pee encouraged fortitude.
I made my way upstairs. I had an overwhelming urge to simply collapse upon the bed, but I wanted to adjust to the time difference as quickly as possible, and so I forced myself to go out for a walk and possibly find something to eat. I emerged into the din outside, consulted my map, and soon found myself wandering upon Wangfujing DaJie, a pedestrian arcade that runs north to south in Central Beijing. The evening was warm. Up on the billboards, I spotted the familiar visages of Tiger, LeBron, and Ronaldinho, and in the square in front of the gothic facade of St. Joseph’s Church, a gathering of scruffy-haired migrant workers with hard, shell-shocked faces. Three mistrals played their instruments, singing a song in a language I could not place. Everything felt strange and I wondered whether it was the jet lag. Or was it the presence of a Gothic cathedral in Beijing? I had not expected to see a cathedral before which brides were having their photos taken, inline skaters loitered, and men with tousled hair and dirty faces stared at the world around them with an expression of despair. As I absorbed the scene, a woman approached me. “Night lady?” she whispered.
Night lady.
I had begun my day in Sacramento, and now I found myself in front of a church in Beijing, surrounded by shoppers and migrant workers, being propositioned by a lady of the night. It had been a long and strange day. I walked on. Ahead, blinking brightly, I could see a sign that announced itself as the “Moslem Restaurant.” Encouraged by the English words, and the implication that there might even be English menus, I entered. It was busy, and as I settled into a seat, I was gratified to receive a menu I could comprehend. And as I perused the restaurant’s offerings, I was more than a little thankful.
Cattle Penis with Garlic
Chicken and Sheep’s Placenta in Soup
Ox’s Penis and Sheep Whip in the Soup
Processed Ox Stomach
Sheep’s Heart
Sheep’s Testicle
Sheep Brain
Ox Larynx
When the waiter returned, I pointed to the Grilled Chicken. I am amenable to eating anything, but not after a long airplane journey, which for me results in a strange and inexplicable knotting of the stomach. Some time later, he returned with a dish that was manifestly not what I thought I had ordered. It was vaguely gelatinous. It quivered. I called the waiter over.
“Zhege zhende shi jirou ma?” I asked.
He looked at me blankly.
“Zhege zhende shi jirou ma?” I repeated, indicating the food. Surely this wasn’t the chicken I had ordered.
He fetched the menu. I pointed to the dish I thought I had requested. The waiter nodded his head effusively. I looked at the menu a little more closely. And then I recognized the enormity of my mistake. Cultural hegemonist that I was, I had assumed that the menu items were displayed in English first, followed by their Chinese translation. The reverse, of course, was true. And now I learned that the grisly mass that lay before me was not a chicken but the brain of an unfortunate sheep. As I sat there, chopsticks in hand, it occurred to me that it was time to start paying attention in China, because there are consequences for not paying attention in China. Big consequences.
3
L et’s begin with Chairman Mao. So much in modern China begins and ends with the colorful tyrant from Hunan. When the China of yore, that long twilight presided over by the doddering Qing Dynasty, finally collapsed with the abdication of the boy emperor, sad little Puyi, it was Mao who emerged in 1949 as the last man standing after decades of civil war. There are still some, apparently, who regard this as a fundamentally good thing, arguing that a fractious, backward country like China
I made my way upstairs. I had an overwhelming urge to simply collapse upon the bed, but I wanted to adjust to the time difference as quickly as possible, and so I forced myself to go out for a walk and possibly find something to eat. I emerged into the din outside, consulted my map, and soon found myself wandering upon Wangfujing DaJie, a pedestrian arcade that runs north to south in Central Beijing. The evening was warm. Up on the billboards, I spotted the familiar visages of Tiger, LeBron, and Ronaldinho, and in the square in front of the gothic facade of St. Joseph’s Church, a gathering of scruffy-haired migrant workers with hard, shell-shocked faces. Three mistrals played their instruments, singing a song in a language I could not place. Everything felt strange and I wondered whether it was the jet lag. Or was it the presence of a Gothic cathedral in Beijing? I had not expected to see a cathedral before which brides were having their photos taken, inline skaters loitered, and men with tousled hair and dirty faces stared at the world around them with an expression of despair. As I absorbed the scene, a woman approached me. “Night lady?” she whispered.
Night lady.
I had begun my day in Sacramento, and now I found myself in front of a church in Beijing, surrounded by shoppers and migrant workers, being propositioned by a lady of the night. It had been a long and strange day. I walked on. Ahead, blinking brightly, I could see a sign that announced itself as the “Moslem Restaurant.” Encouraged by the English words, and the implication that there might even be English menus, I entered. It was busy, and as I settled into a seat, I was gratified to receive a menu I could comprehend. And as I perused the restaurant’s offerings, I was more than a little thankful.
Cattle Penis with Garlic
Chicken and Sheep’s Placenta in Soup
Ox’s Penis and Sheep Whip in the Soup
Processed Ox Stomach
Sheep’s Heart
Sheep’s Testicle
Sheep Brain
Ox Larynx
When the waiter returned, I pointed to the Grilled Chicken. I am amenable to eating anything, but not after a long airplane journey, which for me results in a strange and inexplicable knotting of the stomach. Some time later, he returned with a dish that was manifestly not what I thought I had ordered. It was vaguely gelatinous. It quivered. I called the waiter over.
“Zhege zhende shi jirou ma?” I asked.
He looked at me blankly.
“Zhege zhende shi jirou ma?” I repeated, indicating the food. Surely this wasn’t the chicken I had ordered.
He fetched the menu. I pointed to the dish I thought I had requested. The waiter nodded his head effusively. I looked at the menu a little more closely. And then I recognized the enormity of my mistake. Cultural hegemonist that I was, I had assumed that the menu items were displayed in English first, followed by their Chinese translation. The reverse, of course, was true. And now I learned that the grisly mass that lay before me was not a chicken but the brain of an unfortunate sheep. As I sat there, chopsticks in hand, it occurred to me that it was time to start paying attention in China, because there are consequences for not paying attention in China. Big consequences.
3
L et’s begin with Chairman Mao. So much in modern China begins and ends with the colorful tyrant from Hunan. When the China of yore, that long twilight presided over by the doddering Qing Dynasty, finally collapsed with the abdication of the boy emperor, sad little Puyi, it was Mao who emerged in 1949 as the last man standing after decades of civil war. There are still some, apparently, who regard this as a fundamentally good thing, arguing that a fractious, backward country like China
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