The Race for the Bug-Eating Gold
LUOYANG, CHINA
APRIL 20
I had waited in line long enough. Politeness was getting me nowhere, as Chinese people kept cutting in front of me to use the two-sink washroom
on the overnight train. It was morning, and I was being treated to loud spitting and throat-clearing sounds as the locals went through their morning
routines.
When Yancey showed up and joined the line, my pride wouldn't let me look foolish in front of him. The next time someone hesitated outside
the washroom, I barged in front of them, leaving Yancey brushing his teeth in the hallway.
I washed my face and brushed my teeth. Just as I was about to swap places with Yancey, the woman next to me began to rumble.
"Harruckkgh... gah... pttuuh." She expectorated a gigantic phlegm ball into the slow-moving drain. I bolted. Yancey spat out his toothpaste between cars. Breakfast was not too appealing as we listened to the symphony of
spitting going on around us.
Apparently the government had launched a campaign to stop public
spitting, as this habit was implicated in the spread of tuberculosis.
The public education was effective among the young people, but old habits
die hard and lots of people still spat enough to freak us westerners out. At
least the spittoons my British-Chinese friend Rachel remembers seeing under
dining room tables in restaurants of her youth are gone.
We were short a room at Luoyang's "Peony Hotel" so I shared with
Yancey while Michael moved in with Carl for the night. We dropped off our
stuff, showered, and hurried to the lobby to meet our local guide, George.
George spoke fluent English and was decked out in jeans, sneakers, and
an Adidas jacket. His cell phone rang incessantly. He ushered us into a
minibus, and talked to us about Shaolin Temple as we drove.
Forest of Pagodas.
The cold and rain had hit by the time we reached Shaolin's "Forest of
Pagodas." The 244-pagoda site was packed with Chinese tourists all
getting their pictures scanned onto photos of the Forest of Pagodas. Each
pagoda honored a monk, and George explained the significance, but I didn't
listen. I was distracted by the background music -- instrumental versions of
"Those Were the Days" and country classic "I Can't Stop Loving You."
Yancey and Michael.
Some of our men braved the men's room, paying four jiaos for the
privilege.
"They certainly don't spend it on air freshener," gagged Michael, as
he motioned for disinfectant.
Shaolin temple.
Off we went to Shaolin Temple, which languished in obscurity for
decades until Jet Li made it famous. Nowadays, Shaolin is packed with
martial arts schools, and students run drills down streets, dodging tourists as
they go.
Statues at Shaolin Temple.
The actual temple was too crowded to enjoy, but we did see a photo of
a monk lifting a cinderblock with his penis, and the martial arts show
that followed made the trip worthwhile.
Young men in orange kung fu outfits laid down on nails, tumbled over
each other, fought with swords, sticks, and brooms, and poked
themselves on giant spears. A six-year-old showed enough strength and dexterity to
impress the entire room. After each astonishing feat, the performers would give
a one-handed Shaolin salute. Legend has it that the creator of Shaolin-style
was a one-armed monk.
The inevitable audience participation section came next. Michael tried
-- and failed -- to pull a bowl off a mmonk's tummy. The next fun game
was "punch the monk in the stomach with all your might." Michael failed to give
the monk pause, and Yancey didn't even get a blink (but did cop a stylish "I'm
bad" walk on the way back to his seat). Carl, however, just about winded the poor
fellow by accidently punching the monk below the belt.
We were all tired from our long day, and were mostly silent on the way
back to Luoyang.
"George," someone asked. "Why do people spit so much in China?"
George laughed.
"They're just dumb hicks. They think it's good for them."
There was silence in the minibus, followed by low murmurs. Did he just
say what we thought he'd said?
Our next stop was an underground dwelling, where an old woman lived in
a dirt cave carved out of the surrounding mud. She had tiny feet, a
result of many years of foot binding as a young woman. It was hard not to stare,
but we tried to be polite.
"Cave" home of woman with bound feet.
The huge coachload of French tourists that arrived five minutes later
didn't bother with politeness. They swarmed through the rooms, and took
photos of the old woman like she was a monkey in a zoo.
We left quickly. A kid tried to put his hand into my bag as we exited.
George offered to take us back later, when no one else was there. We
unanimously declined. We'd seen enough.
We stopped for dinner at a good restaurant, and sampled many different
dishes that swirled around the table on a Lazy Susan. The group split
between the hotel and the town square, but Rob and I hopped into a taxi to
check out the night market. Rob had heard that you could get bug-on-a-stick at
the night market. As anyone who read my "Southeast Asia on a Hamstring"
travelogue knows, I can never pass up an opportunity to check out anything edible on a
stick. Food on a stick automatically qualifies as funny.
There was a small hitch in our plan. We had each expected the other to be somewhat informed. I'd left the hotel without my brick-sized guidebook, and Rob had no idea where the market was.
Rob pointed out "market" in his phrase book. The taxi driver took us to a street full of restaurants. It was a start.
"Look, there's a hotel," I said. "Let's go in and ask."
"Good idea."
The staff had no idea where we were trying to go. Rob was getting frustrated and his pointing at the words "night" and "market" and no
effect on the confused hotel staff.
I went to a map and pointed to where I remembered seeing the night market on the guidebook map. Rob repeated "market" and pointed.
It clicked. The hotel receptionist walked us to a taxi, barked out instructions to the driver, and off we went.
The market was only about a block long, but the street was closed to traffic. Rob and I were the focus of many curious stares, and the locals were amused that we were in the market for the specialty of the street --
fried bugs (none of which, I'm saddened to report, came on a stick).
Stall after stall sold cicadas, octopi, crawfish, and little squiggly pupae/larvae squashy insects. One stall proudly displayed a full goat's
head (perhaps as soup stock?).
Rob negotiated with a seller -- we didn't want a full serving of bugs
as neither of us planned to actually eat them. We were going to feed
them to the brave Intrepid men who had unhesitatingly torn into the hog hock
back in Zhouzhang.
Rob chose a variety pack, first pointing to cicadas, and then to the
still-wiggling larvae. The seller threw some oil and spices into a wok,
tossed in the insects, and put some chopped garlic on top. The cicadas fried
up to crispy treats, but the larvae swelled and popped, oozing green pus into
the wok.
When the bugs finished cooking, the seller and several of his friends stared at us and giggled. They wanted to see us eat the snacks, but were sorely disappointed when we asked for a takeaway bag.
We left the market, fried bugs in hand, and walked through the nearby streets. Night stalls had been set up along the main drag, but most
sold pedestrian items such as batteries and hair baubles. One road we passed was complete devoted to fondue restaurants, and each table was centered around a hot pot of boiling oil.
"Hello," screamed customers at fondue restaurants.
"Hello," screamed the proprietors.
Everyone, including me, was giggling.
It was getting late, and our bugs were cooling down. Time to go back
to the Peony Hotel.
Unfortunately, Rob and I had each assumed that the other (the two of
us normally being overly efficient) had a hotel business card. Chinese
hotels always offer business cats that feature maps and address info in both
Chinese and English. Rob always handed each Intrepid traveler a hotel card,
admonishing us to carry it at all times so that we couldn't get lost.
We managed to convey something to a taxi driver, who looked confident
and drove us off. He went in the right direction -- I had some sense of
where we were going from my earlier study of the hotel wall map -- but at the
last minute we made a disconcerting jog to the left and pulled up to an
unfamiliar hotel.
"Here we go again," I thought.
The hotel staff tried to assist us. Rob pointed out "peony" and
"hotel" and "garden" in his phrase book (the public garden was directly across
the street from the Peony Hotel). The staff stared blankly back, and smiled
nervously.
I left Rob to handle our fates and ran to the bathroom. It was
Chinese-style -- that is, no doors on the individual stalls. "When in Rome..."
I thought. Men do it all the time at urinals, why not?
A few, uncomfortable minutes later, I found Rob at the front desk,
getting frustrated.
"Work with me, sister!" he said to the stunned receptionist.
Clearly, Rob was having no luck.
I quietly took the phrase book out of his hand and pointed to "map."
The souvenir seller took me across the room and showed me a map. I pointed at the spot directly across the street from the garden and said "fandian,"
meaning hotel.
"Ahhh..."
A group discussion followed in animated Chinese. The staff piled us
into a taxi and off we went, around the corner to the Peony Hotel.
Rob called Yancey, Tim, Michael, and Carl from the front desk. We all
met upstairs, to sample the mysterious tasty treats that I had arranged
on a plate borrowed from the restaurant.
Yancey goes for broke.
The guys, while disgusted, rose to the occasion. They defined the
cicadas and larvae as "yummys" and "yuckys," respectively. With no
small assistance from the local Chinese beer, the score was tallied. The
U.S., I'm pleased to report, made a showing in the bug-eating Olympics, but
Australia took the gold.
Rob fails miserably.
Yancey, representing the U.S., managed to chew and swallow three "yummys." Our closest neighbor, Canada, was disqualified after
two false starts in which Rob spat "yummy" bits into the wastebasket.
The UK received an honorable mention as Tim chewed and swallowed one "yummy."
Michael brought home the gold for Australia, after consuming
four "yummys" and one "yucky." He and Yancey were always combing city
streets for unique foods and were willing to sample any local dish no matter
how revolting.
Carl took the silver, because after one false start, he managed to
swallow two pus-filled "yuckys."
Meanwhile, I didn't try to eat a single bug. I know my limits -- I
can't even eat mutton or duck without feeling ill. Bugs were definitely
not on my roster of acceptable food choices.
LUOYANG TO XI'AN
APRIL 21
For a half an hour, we were the star attractions at a tourism propaganda fair.
It wasn't clear how this had occurred. Perhaps someone in the Luoyang Tourist Board said, "call George, he knows a lot of tourists." George, in turn, had offered us the honor of doing him the favor of standing around
while looking foreign.
Working hard at looking foreign.
We were good at looking foreign, and we liked George. Aside from the "dumb hicks" remark, he'd been helpful and informative. He didn't
even wince when I inquired about all the racy-looking packets in the hotel souvenir shop.
"That is Chinese Viagra," said George.
Similarly, he'd responded well when I'd asked him where I could buy a charm to ward off hopping vampires.
"Ask at a Taoist temple," he'd instructed me without missing a beat.
George gave us each an official badge, and we took our places in a parade-like demonstration. A marching band played to our left, and a
baton twirlers were on our right. A lovely young Chinese woman stood at the head of our line with a sign.
We had video cameras stuck in our faces. Banners overhead admonished the crowd to encourage foreign tourism. It was all good fun, but soon
our celebrity status was revoked. We handed George our badges and boarded a minibus for Longmen Caves "Dragon Gate Grottoes."
The Grottoes feature thousands of alcoves of varying sizes, all filled with unique stone Buddhas. Michael and I both wandered away from the
group and walked around, amazed by the artistry of each individual Buddha. The highlight was a plateau surrounded by twenty to forty foot tall sculptures of
various divinities.
Working hard at looking foreign.
The downside of all this astonishing sculpture was that it was a mob scene -- crawling with domestic tourists.
Rob, after first convincing a Chinese tour guide to sell us some of his group's lunch, apologized for the crowds.
"I know there were a lot of tourists at Shaolin Temple yesterday. And
there are a lot of tourists here today. I'm sorry about it, but we're
in China and there are 1.26 billion people here. Things tend to get crowded."
Dragon Gate Grottoes ticket stub.
We caught a train to Xi'an. En route, I reminded Rob that I liked
chocolate. There was no need to remark that my birthday was on April
22.
"You've been on too many Intrepid trips, Marie," laughed Rob. He knew
my birthday was the following day.
Rob, like every leader on every group trip, has a passport list that
he must give to each hotel we stay in. This list shows each passenger's
passport details, including date of birth.
After we checked into the Min Sheng Hotel, Rob led a delegation to
Xi'an's Muslim Quarter for "excellent Muslim food." The hummous I'd
been craving turned out to be non-existent, however, and the choice of food
was limited to meat-on-a-stick and spicier meat-on-a-stick.
Disappointed, I sought out Emma, Tim, and Carl. They had found a
fondue restaurant similar to the ones Rob and I had seen in Luoyang. We each
chose a variety of veggies and meats on sticks, and dipped them into one side
of the bubbling pot in the center of our table. One side of the pot featured
boiling water and the other was full of spicy hot oil. We paid by the stick,
and the grand total was low in spite of the pile of sticks on our table at the
end.
Most of the group headed back to the hotel, but I accompanied Tim,
Michael, and Yancey. They wanted to find "1+1," a bar recommended by
both Rob and the Lonely Planet guidebook.
Tim had a knack for picking out English speakers. In truth, his method
appeared to be "choose a trendy-looking college student." He nearly
scared a fashionable young woman out of her skin by saying "excuse me." She
jumped and let out a shriek -- this large, pale, blond man frightened her.
When we did find 1+1, it turned out to be an appalling modern
nightclub thick with smoke and bullshit typical of any nightclub anywhere in the
world. My eyes adjusted to the haze -- I was getting used to it after a few
weeks in China -- and I noticed a bikini-clad woman on stage gyrating to some
American club music. Yancey and Michael noticed as well, and they stood still,
staring.
"I'm leaving. Goodbye," I said to the boys and walked out. I went back
to the hotel, feeling blue. In a few hours, I'd be turning 35. I wasn't
going to do it while breathing in the equivalent of a pack of cigarettes
while watching men I respected ogle a go-go dancer. I'd been traveling solo
for months but hadn't felt so alienated and alone since leaving New York.
Birthdays are funny things. I'm always torn between a desire to be
left to my own devices and a desire to have a fuss made over me. And aside
from Yancey, my friend of many years, the group wouldn't understand my manic
approach to my birthday.
I sat watching cable, and contemplated my situation. What was I doing,
wasting a year by going around the world? Looking for answers? Looking
for questions? Just curious? I didn't know. The woman on television sang
"oh, it is a pigeon," according to the subtitles. Words to live by, or at least to
turn 35 by.
NEXT: Terra Cotta Warriors! Fake North Face and the Forbidden City.
