Seven Weeks of Spittle
By Scott Morley
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When entering into a new country, specifically one completely foreign
in customs, one will notice certain actions and behaviors immediately.
These are the actions that seem to disobey common sense. However,
one quickly learns that common sense is no more than another word
for culture.
China's passion, which certainly disobeys my personal definition
of common sense, is the various applications of saliva. Spitting,
nose-blowing and sneezing are actions that most cultures consider
somewhat repulsive, Thus people act accordingly to ensure cleanliness
and unoffense. Here again, we have not what is common sense, but
a cultural custom. I suspect that in China it is actually a compliment
to spit upon one's neighbor. I can now comprehend China's love of
the spittle-laced delicacy, bird's nest soup. Human snot and saliva
are generally used as crude replacements for MSG in the favorite
local cuisine of China. I have witnessed three people eating off
one plate, and sneezing upon that same plate. I have seen in China,
friends hug close upon greeting, only to cough and sneeze in one
another's faces. I was frequently lonely in China.
My experiences with spit began on a cold forty-hour train ride
to the city of Turpan. I sat with fellow English teacher, D.B, for
the first half of this ride, next to a scrubby character, looking
similar to a malnourished rodent. He sat before me hunched and twitching.
His face had thin tufts of hair at various intervals and he held
his hands against his chest like an underfed rat. Constantly, he
wrinkled and twitched his congested nose, blowing quickly through
his nostrils with a small grunt and a half-sneeze, "Unghph!
Unghph!"
He did this mostly onto my lap. Possibly he liked me. Nonetheless,
I made angry and disgusting faces at him. I yelled NO in Chinese
and made sneezing motions to illustrate my disagreement. It was
no use. He wet my pant leg the duration of that trip.
D.B switched trains halfway and went down to Hong Kong, while I
continued northwest towards Pakistan. I wanted to see a hot and
exotic desert oasis far away from the tourists, which was Turpan.
I had lived in an American desert for six years and knew they get
mighty cold in winter, but the Chinese Tourist Bureau had assured
me that the desert would be hot, in early March. So I continued
forty more hours, through the coldest, windiest and most desolate
country I have ever experienced. I was on a train packed tightly
with poor ethnic minority people. I supposed they were the ethnic
Muslims and nomadic goat herders I had read about. Most of them
looked more far-eastern, oriental rather than middle-eastern, Afghani
or Pakistani.
In the train station, common sense should have told me to retreat
south. The people all wore very thick knit woolen clothing from
head to foot. But I had long underwear and a cotton sock-hat and
figured it would do. By nightfall I was shivering, rubbing my cold,
sweat soaked socks and wondering how I would live through the night.
Finally a curious female attendant approached. Spitting my way,
she took me back to the coal furnace and piled heavy woolen military
jackets over me. She wanted to practice her English. White people
still get special privileges in Asia.
I was even allowed to use the toilets during the trip, whereas
locals were not. Eventually they began pissing upon the slippery,
phlegm, and spit out-chicken bone coated floors. The locals slept
soundly enough on these floors, huddled together for warmth. Children
finally shit on the floors after holding their tiny bowels for so
long with no toilets. As an American born son-of-a-social-worker,
I am too self-righteous for China and I occasionally took risks,
to play the white hero. I walked through each boxcar and unlocked
toilet doors with my knife. I invited the people sleeping nearby
to relieve their swollen innards. But generally they preferred the
cleaner aisles to the shit-smeared little rooms with the hole in
the floor. Culturally, I had to agree with them on that point.
Midway through, the train was boarded by police. Those carrying
false tickets were thoroughly beaten and kicked out to the cold.
One little policeman, resembling his cousin, the Pekinese lap dog,
thought I might enjoy watching his combat techniques. He stood a
few feet from me and beat on a barefoot, toothless old shepherd.
Another cop held the old man. Three kicks to the groin and a groan
from the old grandfather, three more knees to his face, then they
let him drop and kicked his ribs.
Of course, by now I had had enough and new it was time to make
my move to intervene. Fortunately for the officer, or for myself,
I am not sure which, the officer then took more notice of me; He
desired to practice his English! "You America?" he asked
with a warm and generous grin twitching with adrenaline. I responded
with a nod whereupon he informed that he had learned his techniques
from an American television program by the name of "COPS"
and invited me to lunch. Well, how could I be so rude as to reject
such a gesture of kindness? I accepted his invitation graciously;
pork roasted and covered in a sweet, garlic marinade and over steamed
rice.
Turpan was a whipping white wall of wind and snow. The cold was
enough to cause physical pain and I had to actually lean forward
into the wind in order to remain erect. I could barely see two meters
ahead of me. My cheeks stung and tears froze to my eyelids. I had
originally planned a small pony ride up to a local lake, but decided
otherwise and went straight to the outdoor ticket booth for the
next train leaving. Counting out the money stung my fingers painfully
and I gave up quickly. I handed the wad of bills to a broad-chested,
handsome man with curly hair and a long mustache attached to an
impressively large nose, for China at least. He was wearing baggy
silk pants and had his shirt open to show off his hairy Arabic masculinity.
He counted out and handed the money over to the woman and she gave
me a ticket out. I asked the man why he was in and he informed me
that he was visiting distant relatives.
For the return trip, I curled myself shivering, upon a slippery,
spittle-coated seat and slept for twenty-four hours. I was awakened
in the night, by a military officer hawking bright yellow globs
of mucus past my face. I scowled at him, but he puffed on his cigarette
and continued spitting, blowing, and clearing his throat with his
moist, stocking feet propped near my nose. Chinese consider feet
to be very dirty and rude. This seems to be the singular
belief that Westerners and Chinese mainlanders hold in common. Occasionally
I stood up, yelled at the beast and gestured him to stop. But he
gazed right through me and continued into his next pack of cigarettes.
This went on for two hours. Once again I had had enough, and stood
up to make my move. I attempted to spit snot towards the officer
but my mucus landed on his legs. As I winced and raised my arms
in defense, the officer glanced casually at his leg and lit another
cigarette. Somehow each of us was humbled by the others' response.
Somehow was had gained a mutual respect. I remained dry after that,
and so did he.
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