One of the favorite expressions of Princeton economics professor Harvey Rosen is: “There’s no such thing as a free lunch.” While I understand the economic thinking behind this statement (Am I sacrificing utility in eating what is given to me? What about the time spent eating—could I be gaining something more valuable with it?), the cheap college student in me things that any meal given gratis is nothing to sneeze at.

And so it was that on day one of Jishou, after presenting the wonderful cook at Asian Jack Black (a.k.a. “the black dirty place”, “the greasy spoon”) with a Hoagie Haven t-shirt and proclaiming our—and Will Schleier’s, SoS ’11—appreciation for her food, the cook responded by not letting Eliot and me pay for our lunch. I never felt more honored to have been denied a 6 kuai (>$1) expenditure.

Thus began the gradual realization that people in Jishou actually remember the strange foreigners who tramp across their town, eating up street food, bargaining for the more oddly worded t-shirts, and working out in their rooftop gym. A fried rice lady waves at me as I walk past, a street vendor flashes a grin—it’s all there. I even manage to spot an ad for a calligraphy studio with the smiling face of Katelyn Scanlan, SoS ’11, smiling back at me.

The initial reaction for all of this is: “Oh my gosh, we Westerners are so different! We’re so special! They remember us even a year later! They even use us in their ads.”

But then another reality sinks in: “Wow. They’re watching us, and they’re noticing everything we’re doing. Carp.”

This realization has certainly colored my second round in Jishou. While last year I both enjoyed and felt self-conscious about being stared at, this year I am slightly more aware of being but one of many in a parade of foreigners who come to Jishou each summer. We are both what we do in the present, and also what those who came before for us did in the past. That, I think, has come to redefine what SoS is for me. Once an unforgettable summer, it is morphing into a narrative of summers that are inextricably linked by the common experience of placing well-wishing Princetonians in rural China.

This definition will also continue to change. Probably.

–       Cameron

I had plans. I was going to be 6’2″ so that I could stand out – but not too much. 6’2″ is the perfect height for a tennis player. My dad told me that. I was going to go pro. Freshman year of high school I stopped growing at 5’9″. No matter how much I willed myself to get taller (I didn’t drink coffee), I was condemned to be average. I stopped playing tennis. Then a new thought, a new hope: if I couldn’t get taller, I would go to a place where people were shorter than me. I heard that people felt taller in Asia. My twin brother felt huge in Japan.

After two weeks in China, my plans had been thwarted. Guys were taller than I expected and girls tended to wear four inch heels (not an exaggeration). I was just taller than average, still not a standout. Fate had defeated me, but all was not lost.

In Jishou it appears the students’ and officials’ main contact with the West comes through Hollywood. Enter the July Fourth opening banquet. Arianna was compared to a famous Chinese singer, Reuben a handsome young man (later to be called an English gentleman). The president of the college was thrilled to meet me because I apparently looked like Leonardo DiCaprio from Titanic. “Your name should be Jack, not Nick” he told me. A few days later Cameron would be compared to Hugh Jackman from X-Men.

It’s probable Leo would be offended by the comparison, but no one has to tell him.  So maybe I’m not tall, but I’m finally ok with that – my heart will go on.

-Nick

This week has been amazing, yet challenging. It’s hard to watch the people sell fruits and vegetables on the streets, with no guarantees that they’ll make any money. Or the old lady who searches through the garbage heap everyday, looking for another chance. I helped her out today. May have helped her keep going for a week or two. Although I didn’t understand what she said to me, I saw the gratitude in her face. My students were amazing. I looked into their eyes and saw the desire to learn. Some were nervous, others anxious or excited. But the best part was the rush of adrenaline I felt when I was in front of the classroom. I can’t wait to handle my own class. Words can’t express how thankful I am for this opportunity. It’s difficult to fathom how lucky we are for being able to eat with the officials and the Vice Governor. I couldn’t ask for more.

Tomorrow’s our first day of classes and despite being asked by Eliot, one of our wonderful leaders, if I am nervous, I cannot say that is the case. I am beyond excited- ready to mold these minds and to challenge these kids, er teens? young adults? after all, they are my age, as they have never been before. I won’t lie and pretend that I’m going to be a nice teacher. The best and most memorable teachers have been those who have argued with me and caused me to be angry at myself for not understanding until my aha! moment dawns on me. I would love to be like them. Ms. Fiona Johnson in 4th grade English, Ms. Herrera in 7th grade Spanish, Ms. Saprissa in 10th grade Honors Chemistry, Mr. McFarland and Mrs. Dunlap in 11th grade AP Environmental Science and English Composition, Ms. Richards in AP English Lit…these are the teachers that challenged me beyond what I thought possible and it is from them that I hope to get some inspiration and somehow, be as awesome a teacher as they were. If I fail, as learned in TEFL training, always have a backup plan.

To prepare for class tomorrow, Reuben, Nick and I went to buy 30 journals for our 29 students. These will be weekly writing assignments, a way to have a different type of conversation with our students, a more personal one if you will. We each have ten students to write to each week. I personalized mine by writing the student’s name on the cover and putting little hearts over the i’s and writing a welcome note in the front page:

“Dear ____, This journal will be a way for us to communicate throughout the summer. In it you can write any questions you have and want me to answer or things you just want me to know. It will be a type of conversation as we travel- together- through the world of English. I am really looking forward to becoming your friend this summer! Go dragons!”

I hope we can start tomorrow on our right foot and set the right tone for a great summer of teaching and learning.

Until next time,

-Arianna (in pink ink, just like in the journals)

The past few days have been jam-packed with more explorations of Jishou and preparation for the moment we’ve all been waiting for: teaching our first class (which will take place tomorrow morning)!

Two days ago, we conducted a series of interviews in order to place our students into the four levels that we’ll be teaching (named Phoenixes, Unicorns, Lions, and Dragons, after the four mythical creatures of China). I cannot describe how odd it felt to be on the other side of the door; rather than being the nervous student waiting to be called in (a role which I am all too familiar with), I was the teacher/interviewer sitting inside the classroom, asking students to “please take a seat” and making observations about each student’s performance. What struck me most was how nervous several of the students were; many of them tried to peek into the classroom, while others seemed to be going over notes (?) outside. I also saw quite a few anxious mothers, who had accompanied their children to what – I imagined – they considered to be an extremely important oral examination. The second girl who came in (and the first person I interviewed, since Christian and I took turns) actually had an entire speech prepared, which she frantically raced through the minute she walked in, even though I tried to explain to her that I would only be asking a few questions. The entire process took a little over two hours, and by the end of it both Christian and I were exhausted – but it was very rewarding to see how, as the interviews progressed, Christian and I agreed pretty constantly on which level to place each student in. Possibly the most rewarding experience, though, was seeing the students go from nervously wringing their hands to smiling by the end of their interviews.

Yesterday the Opening Ceremony for the PiJ (Princeton in Jishou) program was held, and possibly the highlight of it (for both SoS and the students) was the dance that we performed. We busted some moves to Carly Rae Jepsen’s glorious “Call Me Maybe,” choreography courtesy of Miryam and Alyssa. It was the first time in years that I had danced onstage, and I have to say, I had a blast!

The festivities didn’t end with the Opening Ceremony; last night, we had our first banquet with school and local government officials. The food was delicious, and the company enjoyable – an interesting night, to say the least. By the time we returned to our apartments, it was only around 8:30 – what ensued was an impromptu dance party in the boys’ apartment. Christian, Arianna, and Miryam brought a little bit of Latino flavour to the dancefloor with their merengue and salsa moves, while DJ Reuben played some good ol’ American pop. Apparently we hadn’t gotten enough of ”Call Me Maybe,” for we ended the night with our dance routine from the Opening Ceremony.

 All in all, a great 4th of July.

Jishou is as hot, spicy, grimy, and amazing as remembered. SoS ’12 got in on an early morning train yesterday and hit the ground running. Seven Cup, pizza man, baozi woman, clay pots, AJB have already experienced a sudden leap in patronage.

Stay tuned.

Our last night with WildChina at the rice terraces:

I have inadvertently entered an uncountable number of staring contests with hundreds of strangers over the past week. But despite my domestic title as reigning SoS slack-jaw champion, these duals are usually not pre-meditated. More often than not, I’m quick to forfeit the impromptu matches because a smile or a wave or even a nihao is just too tempting. These may or may not be reciprocated, but no matter. I have absolutely zero plans to work on my poker face.

Being constantly invited into staring contests offers some unique opportunities and challenges. For example, photography is often a precarious conflict of interest. I get this rare opportunity to consistently take photos with my subjects peering directly at my camera, and I don’t even have to ask! I should probably consider setting up a portrait studio. What this also means, however, is that there is rarely even a chance of taking photos of anyone not looking at the camera. Two months of portrait photography, I realize, might start to get old.

Similarly, if I ever feel like starting a conversation or if find myself needing to ask a question, our convoy probably already has the attention of the entire vicinity. So many friends will be made. Yesterday, when stepping onto a bridge filled with forty eyes tracking every movement that I made, it was neither difficult nor awkward when I wanted to strike up conversation with these future friends. In fact, we ended up talking about the reason why Americans can look very different from each other, how it’s sometimes hard to determine where people are from, and the rapid development of the Chinese countryside. But this has a flipside, too. When engaged in a staring contest, its quite important to minimize extraneous movement. I’ve found from experience that there’s never a chance to take a cute misstep, sneak a stealthy adjustment of the spanx, or do anything similarly incriminating. For while my opponents would likely remain transfixed, mortification would pull me right out of the game. If I could blush, I certainly would. (And that would throw us all for a loop).

But alas. I will dual ‘til the end. It’s somehow comforting to know that our friends here in rural (and not-so-rural) China find me as interesting as I find them. The cards have been evenly dealt. Furthermore, I have no qualms about appearing to be a member of some strange species, an enigmatic character from a foreign TV show, or just a laughable tourist. Everything feels right, as it should be. There’s no want and no need. I can’t wait to get up tomorrow and once again take my seat on the bus, ready to stare unflinchingly at the beautiful countryside.

If she is willing to accept my challenge, that is.

~Jessica

As teased earlier, here comes the dead bird story. I can only hope I do the story justice. (Also, because I’m covering the dead bird story, I do not take responsibility for talking about the rice paddy adventure with Alyssa, Eliot, and Cameron.)

Alyssa and I were roommates in Wugao and stayed with a nice host family comprised of a father, a mother, and a daughter. The father and daughter spoke Mandarin and the mother only spoke Miao. I speak neither language, so I knew I was in for a fun time (think lots of hand motions, blank stares, and awkward laughter). At first, nobody in our host family seemed super keen on interacting with us, but after a day (and the fateful dinner where we spoke about Miao hairstyles) the father seemed to really open up to us. Alyssa and I had a great time that night, so we invited Eliot and Reuben over to hang out with us during our last night in Wugao.

Things proceeded along a similar path as the night before. I experienced it differently than the other three SOSers, though, because I was only one of us that didn’t speak Mandarin. I got the majority of the conversation secondhand. However, it was easy to understand most of our host father’s jokes because he used a lot of body language. In the middle of one of our conversations, he casually reached behind himself and grabbed a dead bird off of a table. Needless to say, the four of us were shocked. Apparently, he wasn’t going to use the bird for anything – he had found it that day and just found it interesting to keep around (and show us). He was pretty amused by our reactions to it, because he was waving it all over the place, and whenever it got close to any of us, we would quickly lean away from it. Everyone shared a good laugh when host dad pretended to throw the bird at me, and I jumped back so quickly I almost fell off of my stool. After that, dinner ended, and we took some family pictures (sans bird).

Our last night in the Miao village was a fun one, but I’m glad we moved on to the Dong village yesterday. I knew there could only be more adventures to be had. Similar to the Miao villages we have visited, we were greeted by a “way blocking” committee. The overall mission of these groups of enthusiastic, singing women is to stand in your way and not let you in to the village until you take a drink from a bowl that one of them is holding. At this village, we were greeted with rice wine instead of tea;  to be quite honest, I didn’t even taste the rice wine because there was an added twist: super spicy fish. After drinking from a bowl held by one woman, another one promptly fed me a small morsel of fish. I was not ready for the spice that assaulted my mouth, and I thought my tongue was on fire. Not necessarily in a bad way…but not a super great way, either. It was an experience.

The crowd of woman was accompanied by an even larger crowd of children, which I was really excited about. In the Wugao, we didn’t get to see that many children, and the ones we did see were usually boys. However, at the Dong village, there were so many children everywhere, of all ages, and the distribution between boys and girls seemed fairly equal. When we had some free time after passing the way blocking committee, I went outside to explore with the rest of the SOS girls. The kids seemed happy to meet us and show us around, even if they were a bit shy at first. I made sure to show them the pictures I took, and I was always greeted with a cheerful laugh in response.

I’ve really enjoyed hiking through these beautiful Chinese mountainsides (despite the occasionally dangerous rice paddies? Too soon to joke, Eliot?) and visiting a handful of villages. Each one has its own unique charms to reveal. Similar to Reuben, I can’t believe that our WildChina trip is going to end so soon.

The next time you hear from me, I’ll be in Jishou!

– Kelsey

One of the many conversations that always crops up in the group is the variety of people we have come across on our Wild China trip. Old people and babies are a particularly strong category, so much so that Arianna and Miryam have mentioned devoting a tumblr to them. Other people have also spent time marveling at haircuts (Chinese mullets anyone?) and t-shirts (those inescapable Chengrish head-turners).

For my part, there has not been a singe catchall group that has caught my attention. Instead, there a have been a cast characters who have stuck out. Some memorable ones:

Two Miao ladies, fifties, Wugao Miao minority village

They labor around their houses while wearing traditional Miao attire—hair in a bun, comb tucked in back, dark jacket and long pants. They laugh and sing while they do work, and are kind enough to teach foreigners their songs and dances, one of which requires clapping small stools together. They even extend their hospitality to the point where they transform one Westerner into a Miao princess. But most amazing of all is their friendship—after what seems a lifetime in a village together, they always have someone to laugh with.

My host mom, sixties, Wugao Miao minority village

A force to be reckoned with. She belts out the words Ni hao! with tones uncharacteristic of standard Mandarin and a loudness that penetrates the thin wooden walls of her traditional Miao house (you can hear everything, even the son that groans at her orders from his bedroom). One afternoon, she affectionately threatens to beat me to death with a hoe (Wo da si ni!), but I am saved by her realization that I look like a white pilot in a war drama she watches at night (Ni men liang ren yi yang!). Her home is plastered with pictures where various aspects of famous world cultural sights are photo-shopped together (i.e. the White House with the Capitol Dome in a British garden). Her ear lobes are long from repeated wearing of heavy jewelry. I never got to say goodbye to her.

Woman, early thirties, Dali Dong minority village

It’s evening time, just after dinner. She sits in a concrete clearing just beyond the bridge one must cross to enter the village, selling homemade tofu out of a plastic bucket. Two young girls cluster around her. They cling to her shirt and glare at their mother’s customers. There is a trace of worry on her face. When approached and asked how one makes tofu, she smiles and says, “How does one even begin to explain that?”

My host father, thirties, Dali Dong minority village

Interactions with him are limited, but certainly noteworthy. He shows us how the key to the bathroom is hidden in the pocket of a white shirt hung at the back of the house, and helps us in getting a basin, towel, and sandals for a rather wet and muddy Eliot (I’m sure someone else will detail the events surrounding this in a blog). He has the tact(?) to laugh at Eliot’s misfortune.

Our driver, forties, the bus

No one has thought to ask his name or where he is from, but we feel like we know him anyway. He has a wrinkled, expressive face and an uncanny ability to navigate unfinished backwater roadways—with the occasional expletive, of course. He shovels down rice at meals so that he can get back to the bus to move it or watch our stuff. Perhaps the most underappreciated group member.

– Cameron

I’m writing this posting after a wonderful Dong performance of dancing and singing in the town of Zhaoxing, Guizhou China. By wonderful, I mean relieving. Let me explain.

In the past week on three occasions I have been summoned to take part in communal dancing by various ethnic minorities. In KaiLi the dancing was downright sadistic. Forming a giant chain with linked arms that snaked around itself, this Miao dance involved villagers trying their very hardest to smash their incredibly bony pelvises into your body. Though I’m a modest 5’9,” the average height of these relentless Miao dancers was much smaller. This meant that their pointy hips were slamming into the upper part of my legs – which as some of you who have siblings may know creates a nerve-numbing eruption of pain. Though I did my best to punish the small Miao men and women around me, 5 minutes later I staggered limping from the dance circle knowing that I was not victorious.

The dancing in WuGao was less traumatic but involved the smashing of stools together while stomping around a room. Several miscounted measures and crushed fingers later, I hid in the corner wondering why these peaceful farmers were so inclined to create violent dances. Conclusion: dancing Miao farmers aren’t sober and aren’t delicate, pale, college students.

Needless to say PTSD started to kick in this evening when a beautiful Dong woman adorned with copious jewelry and covered in a layer of makeup (which made her appear slightly clown-like) approached me with an outstretched hand. Prior to this invitation to dance, I had been sitting tranquilly and safely in my front row seat. Yet, behind her carefully crafted and adorable exterior I knew she had the powers to embarrass and bludgeon foreigners.

Moments later I was holding hands in a communal circle bearing a shakily large smile in a typical Nervous Nancy fashion. This time however, there would be no celebratory charlie horses, and the group dance ended with my spirits and quads intact.

More harrowing updates from the field to come

-Nick