The Xi'an Pickpocket

He stands.  He studies.  He waits. 

His hands buried into his thin, black jacket pockets as he scans the crowd of cattle mooing and herding onto the local bus outside of the Xi'an train station.  Mostly his own people, he looks past them trying to find unsuspecting victims, overwhelmed by the hazy sky and dirty terrain.  Enter us.

High off of getting through the rigors of buying train tickets; a simple task, we would have taken for granted in Japan, we cheerfully run across traffic to the bus-stop/knickknack chain on the other side of the street.  Parched and happy to be done with the day's task, I buy a couple of waters and stuff the remaining cash into my wallet, and then into my cargo pocket.  I button the pocket.

He studies.  He waits.

We see our bus approaching and the race begins.  People, like groundhog zombies, seem to multiply and then appear from inside the shop walls and under the sidewalk concrete. They surround us vying for an invaluable seat on the over-crowded bus and all of a sudden we are completely engulfed in a mob of Chinese travelers. 

"This is crazy," I say in a low voice to Paul.
"Yeah, but it's pretty normal," he responds.
"It's like we're being herded into a human corral."

We push and shove our way onto the bus and somehow find two seats next to one-another.  Paul sits on the inside and I on the outside.  People file in until all the seats are taken and the isles are filled to maximum capacity.  Every now and again, someone shoves his/her way to the doors to exit, which causes a ripple of movement in the crowded mob.  Paul & I begin what turns into one of our many compelling conversations.

"It's like, if we were in Japan, there would probably be an employee getting paid by the government to usher everyone into the correct line and cut off those who would breach the max capacity of the bus, you know?"
"Definitely," Paul concurs. "There's just so many people that live here.  Chaos is the only way they know how to live."
"I know, it's this idea of obeying big brother unquestionably that really bugs me out.  There are cameras on the subway, police getting trained on the sidewalks of big streets as an obvious display to the public and just.. so many things that lend themselves to the opposite of Western thinking."
"Yeah."

We both pause briefly and take in the reality of this world.  Then I break the silence.
"So you've lived here for a year now, do you see the affect on the individuals in this society?  I mean, have you been able to observe their reactions, or do they all just accept it blindly?"

Paul thinks about this long and intently. 
"Well, I think most people that don't travel or care to expand their thinking, probably do fall into a habit of accepting the status quo.  But that also applies to probably any modern society, don't you think?"
"Yeah, definitely,"  I answer.
"The people I think it effects most are the bottom feeders who are poor or scraping to get by.  The way society is organized does not adhere to their needs. And since they are the bottom feeders, they're probably the ones that question the rules and regulations the most.  So in essence, the one's who question society are seen by the system as outcasts.  Now imagine what this does to those people; they struggle and rebel against the system.  This makes them subjugated, which ultimately feeds into the circle of the uncompromising system.  In this regard, it's not terribly different from any other modern society."

We sit in silence and think.

We reach our stop and get off.  Our next destination is a phone store in order to put more minutes on Paul's phone.  My thoughts still hover around the "bottom feeders" in our discussion and out of pure instinct I check my wallet in my side pocket.  My button is undone and wallet, gone.  I double check every pocket in my pants and a mounting, frantic state looms over me like a dark and heavy rainstorm approaching.  I clearly remember buttoning my cargo pocket after putting my wallet inside.  My empty hands grasp nothing and control slips away like the reigns dangling from their galloping mare.

I stand frozen, beaten.

Then like a fierce, five fingered slap to the face, I snap into action.

"I'm going back to the hostel.  I've gotta cancel my cards."
"Are you sure you remember how to get there" Paul concernedly asks.
"Yeah, I'll meet you back there."

180 degrees later, my brisk pace turns into a slight jog, and then a sprint.  My mind whirls with the possibility of my enemy charging a new pair of shoes or his family's new wardrobe for the next year to any one of my three cards. He could talk to a guy he knows who specializes in identity theft.  He could sell the cards to his friends and they could go on a shopping spree.  Shoes and jewelery for everyone!

What's in my wallet?  Fortunately not much cash but unfortunately all three credit cards.  What else?  My feet try to keep pace with my thoughts but my heart pumps with a strong and steady first place lead.

Shit!  My foreign ID card.  It's gone.  THAT is the most important thing there.  Without it, I could never receive the pension that the Japanese government owes me for the last three years of teaching in Japan.  Japanese rules and regulations are upheld so rigidly that this could easily be a reality.  So instead of stealing 250 RMB and a few credit cards to be canceled within the next 10 minutes, he may have now taken my $7,500 nest egg.  Anxiety sprints past all else into first place, which only motivates my heart, mind and feet to race faster.

I get to my hostel, dripping with the damp, humid anxiety that only being robbed can persuade.  I find my way to the computers and all three are being occupied.  I stand.  I drip.  I wait.

Finally one opens up and I jump on.  I cancel all three cards immediately and begin the process of calling each company to report a stolen card and find out if anything else has been purchased.

I discover that I'm one of the lucky ones.  None of the cards were used.  Now, I write an email to my supervisor in Japan asking if there's any way to still receive my pension with out my "Gaigin Card."  I sit.  I wait. Only time will tell.  That bastard.

Last Month in 高山: July 1, 2010

First day of July, 2010: all day thunderstorms and lightening bolts... love a good thunderstorm.

Last Month in 高山: June 30, 2010

What I won't miss about Japan:  one specific school lunch, which features the small, beady-eyed fish, disguised as bean sprouts, topped with fish flavored fish flakes.  There is a "school policy" that everyone must eat all of their lunch, I assume because it would be disrespectful to poorer countries if we wasted such things.  Therefore, there's no way around not eating this, other than sneaking a tissue into your pocket before entering the room and then stealthily mashing it all up, with the intention of disposing it at a later juncture (attempted once, failed once).

So as I carefully strategize how much rice I can eat and milk I can drink to try to subdue the full-blown fish flavor, I begin talking to the fifth grader that is sitting at my table.  She asks if I have a girlfriend and I say,  "yes."
Then she asks if I'm married and I say, "no."
Her friend becomes interested and asks "why not?"
I then try to explain to them that I'm, "not quite ready," in so many words.
Then they ask my age and when I say, "twenty seven," the disbelief that washes over their faces is comical.  They can't believe that I am currently choosing to not get married.  I think this social norm has more to do with living in a relatively closed off country side than anything else, however when I step back and look outside my immediate bubble, I see something intriguing.

Two friends from college in the States have just gotten married (citation: Facebook) and now that adds up to seven friends that I've known since high school that have since tied the knot.  Now this may not seem so strange to some people, but it definitely creates an out-of-body levitation experience that is new to this guy.

The rate of people around me getting married isn't really what interests me, however, it's more the idea that the students I spoke with, couldn't believe that I didn't want to marry.  Apparently it's a given that around here, you get married right out of college (if you even get to college) or even before that.  And if you make it past my age without doing so, as a woman for example, then you may want to pack it in and start selling your fairy tale dreams to someone else.  Either way, today provided another revelation that proves  parts of home (Colorado country side) and areas of Takayama really aren't as far apart as they seem.

I won't miss the fish-flavored fish bean sprouts... but enlightening conversations with eleven year old's in another language will be a tall order come this time next month.

Last Month in 高山: June 29, 2010

Today we had the Japanese Junior High school version of a pep rally.  It was fascinating.  I've become so accustomed to the military-like procedures of hundreds of students yelling, chanting and repeating in unison, the straight arms tucked tightly by their sides, the perfection demanded from the teachers and the consistent, unquestioning acceptance of most cultural norms.

I don't mean to cast a negative spell onto the culture in which I observe and live, however, when I recall where I come from, I find it interesting as hell that I have pulled away from the initial wide-eyed, gawking stairs that I once gave only three years ago.

While that initial challenge of fending for myself in a new and strange culture was difficult, it was also simple.  I had the wind at my back.  My worldly innocence was virginal.  And now, with this experience, I can't help but feel a new pressure bubbling within as adulthood slithers it's way through these dark, invisible corridors of future expectations...

And now I find myself as a row-boat, casting away into an infinitely massive, eerily frightening and yet seemingly conquerable ocean,  and still all I can do is marvel at the beautiful beach from which I'm departing.

Abruption

6:30am. A thin mist rolls off the top mountain peaks and quietly slithers through the old, cylindrically angled Japanese houses. It’s calming serenity slowly awakens the world with it’s silent alarm. With morning, life comes without any regard to time. It comes and comes again, day after day and in it’s own presence, I’m reminded of absence.

The bus rolls along through the hills and the silence is broken by sighs and slighted, salty streams. Bus, train, train, plane, plane, plane, car, home. 26 hours of waiting, thinking, wondering. No answers, only questions.

The words replay over and over like a disjunct film loop with every other ten frames cut out. Urgent. Call home.

Nonlinear, unfocussed time is mashed together with sour, stomach pits and salty anger. Acid reflux. Hollow confusion bounces buoyantly like a lost sound-wave looking for a portal to enter. No sense of grounded reality and all is blurred. Get off the plane, get on the next. Find the gate, wait. Distract with music, silly games, people watching, face guessing, realizing from today, these eyes will see everything through a filtered lens.

I am the clicking, gut-wrenching gears that crank the roller coaster up it's track of anticipation. Expectations are undefined and images from an incomplete life fleet in between each clamp. Blur.

Baby’s cry on planes, children laugh. They don’t know, and they wont. They never had it so good: these fortunate faces. I interject, BUT everyone goes through things in life, everyone has their hardships. BUT this is mine and it’s every moment wrapped into a cyclonic second. This is changing who I am with each breath. We all sit in the same space, and share these same moments, yet we share a separate clock. They don’t understand and never will.... It could always be worse, I interject again, always. I console and try to convince. I argue, alone.

Get off the final plane (hour twenty-six). Hear a familiar voice. Ride the escalator up, look into the eyes of a familiar face and embrace. Release.

I ride in the backseat, blinded by a sun that hasn’t fallen in over a day. It’s prolonged it’s cycle for me, I console and try to convince. Sunshine heals, distracts and escorts life away from the deepest of chasms. It’s warm, ephemeral glow, washes my eyes closed. Perfection gently runs down the backs of my eye-lids and little by little, the moments and sunlight begin their treatment.