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olwwhite@hotmail.com The highlight of my trip was a Junior Lifeguard clinic, conducted under the auspices of the Xiamen Lifesaving Association and my new friend, director Xu Jian Cheng. Organized months ahead of time, relationships and protocols established with members of the Hong Kong Life Saving Society, Chinese Life Saving Association and International Life Saving Federation, the clinic still was something of a mystery as Mr. Xu played the part of tour guide around Xiamen. Despite a lengthy list of requirements for anyone wishing to take part in the clinic, and my sincere belief that last minute planning meant I would finish my clinic in plenty of time for dinner, I was shocked when we arrived at the local pool to gather equipment and persons. An entire city block was choked off, traffic hopelessly blocking passage in or out. Attempting to take in my surroundings, but finding only a growing sense of dread, I was introduced to a series of lifesaving officials, parents, observers, and stacks upon stacks of kids. Not just the small, elite group of twelve and thirteen year-olds I had requested, but ages ranging from five to twenty-five and all shapes and sizes. Knowing of the potential hazards involved in teaching a JG clinic, but mentally calculating that my chances of sprinting to the airport and fleeing the scene were slim to none, I put on my most confident smile and hoped for at least a break-even day. After re-loading all the various vehicles parked in the middle of the road, we zipped down to the beach in front of the University of Xiamen, where their first ever Rough-Water Life Saving championships will be held. The Chinese description of "rough-water" varied slightly from my own, as a calm day on the lake seemed the most accurate description of conditions. Heartened by this bit of divine favor, Mr. Xu started re-introducing me to the lifesaving officials I had just met on the street. With names and faces vanishing into a brain racing to create a curriculum for this "slightly-larger-than-expected" group, I made my introduction to the kids. "Kids" may be stretching the description a bit, as some of these youngsters were bigger than me and a couple even looked older. Without a proper I.D. check, however, I was stuck with this bunch, so I, through my interpreter, gave them a big 'hello' and a brief run-down of my training, professional experience and competition history. With the students sufficiently bored, I handed out sunscreen to the group and got suited up. The course began with the usual safety warnings, mostly for the benefit of my interpreter, as the lifesaving language and gestures seemed to leave everyone, including myself, a bit befuddled. Protect your head and neck, know the water's depth before you dive in, always swim near a lifeguard. Convinced that the warnings were lessening everyone else's confidence, and not doing a heck of a lot for my own, we got into the swing of things with a short run. A line of twenty-plus kids behind a big white guy with a brand-spanking new rescue buoy attracted a lot of attention, but we didn't mind, running around the crowds and getting a brief tour of the area. Doubling-back, we high-stepped along the water's edge. Turning south again, we began "dolphining", a series of leaps moving through waist to chest deep water. This was were our little adventure took an interesting, if somewhat dangerous turn. Along the Xiamen coastline, are very large boulders covered with very little water. While doing our "dolphin" drills, and leading the pack as I was, I was unnerved to discover on one of my leaps that just below the surface was one of these big rocks. Luckily, I had taught the kids to always protect their head and spine by dolphining with their arms and hands in front of them. This saved me, but only barely, from being a casualty during my own JG clinic. Pointing out the danger to the kids and modifying as much as possible our water routines, we finished the drill none the worse for wear. The clinic continued with drills teaching proper use of the rescue tube, as well as games like beach flags. The fact that these lessons were conducted with impromptu equipment that might've violated the letter of the law governing these events didn't stop the kids from enjoying them thoroughly. We even got some great group pictures at the end of the day, the kids and I mugging for the camera. Our success was celebrated that evening with a banquet dinner with officials from Xiamen lifesaving. My journey was spiced with a wide variety of delicious meals. Although the Chinese definition of a pleasant dining experience may differ slightly from ours (think Disneyland on a busy day or having a bite in the middle of the Indy 500 and you've got some idea), the experience was nonetheless wonderful. During our banquet in Xiamen, a particular dish of gray, tan-ish gelatin, with long gray squiggles and a bit of chili sauce appeared. It was an enjoyable appetizer, but as I dove into my second bowl I noticed the other people at the table were laughing, fit to be tied. Anticipating what might've been the source of the humor, I leaned over to my translator and inquired just what, exactly, was I eating. Barely able to contain his giggles, the translator informed me that jellied sea worms were a local delicacy. Allowing this information to sink in, and for my companions to finish enjoying the moment, I decided that since it hadn't killed my companions up to that point, and tasted pretty good, then I might as well continue enjoying. That same attitude served me well as I tried everything under the sun, including parts of the animal I hadn't previously considered food. Chicken's feet, both hot and cold (hot's better), duck's blood, duck's head, whole fish fried and eaten like potato chips, yak in various incarnations, and so on and so forth. Wonderful and a great bonding experience really. Although I'd like to think the success of my trip was due to precise and thorough planning, in reality I lucked into an awful lot of fun. And, on the other side of the coin, I stumbled my way into a couple uneasy moments. To wit, a planned "Tiger Leaping Gorge" trek was waylaid by a nasty case of altitude sickness. It started in the early morning hours with a minibus trip from Lijiang to Daju. I experienced a mild headache and nausea, but at this point in my trip I could be forgiven for suspecting any number of causes before the change in altitude. So I pressed on, determined not to let whatever meal was trying to come back to haunt me ruin the day. We crossed the big, brown, fast-flowing Yangzi (known here as the Jinsha) on a ferry and began our hike. Gritting my teeth we began the arduous climb from the valley floor to the "upper road" we'd take to our first night's lodging. Almost immediately I threw up several times. As I continued up the trail, the adrenaline rush from vomiting faded and my headache worsened. Twice I tried resting to combat my worsening symptoms, but nothing helped. I'd feel a little better, stand up and the headache would come back with a vengeance. Finally, I admitted to my fellow climbers that I wasn't getting better and that they should continue the hike, but I would have to return to Daju and catch the late bus back to Lijiang. My hiking partners were concerned about my ability to follow the trail, just a worn spot in the dirt and grass, in my deteriorating condition and remarked I looked rather gray. I told them I had no worries about returning to Lijiang on my own, that descending combined with an easier, down-hill hike would make all the difference in the world. It nearly didn't. I continued to feel worse. It was weird. At certain elevations, even though I was descending in altitude, I would suddenly and violently vomit. I attempted re-hydrating with the water I carried, but that didn't work either. Exhausted, I struggled to follow the trail, only stumbling upon the ferry after several missteps. This being China after all, there was no bus on the other side to return me to Daju. Heck, there were probably no other cars in the town, and no phones to call for assistance either. Therefore, I had to walk for approximately two hours fighting the symptoms of altitude sickness and even on the ride home I was very concerned about my condition. But then again, I figured if the bus driver I bribed to take me home didn't kill me, then the altitude sickness might not either. The Chinese Life Saving Association was an invaluable aid during my trip and we spent a great deal of time together during my visits to Beijing, Shanghai and Jzuhai. The director of the association, Yuan Jia Wei, and the director of Chinese swmming and water polo, Liu Wei, were the most gracious of hosts and took great pains to introduce me to their cities, organizations and friends. My first contact was at the Chinese National Lifesaving championships in Shanghai. The top two teams, the Hong Kong Life Saving Society and the Chinese National team battled throughout the three-day meet and we shared competition stories and planned to meet at future World Championship competitions. Even better than the competition itself, however, was the opportunity to join these athletes, coaches and officials in the events surrounding the competition. Dinners, city tours and banquets without fail turned into karaoke parties once the sun went down. Although most of my experience with the event was peripheral, I like to think I was able to contribute in some small way when a bit of bad fortune hit our group. While touring Shanghai, and posing for pictures in front of the Pearl TV tower, we decided to take a photo with everyone jumping off a low wall. In theory, this would've been a neat picture, in reality you get blurry photo and a girl with a broken leg. The poor, brave girl, Lulu, actually encouraged us to continue the tour without her, despite being in great pain, before she was rushed by ambulance to the local hospital. This is where I learned the difference between Western hospitals and the medical care available to most Chinese. A gray, dingy, poorly lit building that barely seemed to identify itself as a hospital admitted Lulu into the ER. I call it an emergency room, but there seemed to be very little urgency to the way the hospital dealt with poor Lulu. Before we could even see a doctor, we had to see the most important person on the staff, the cashier. What they do with patients that arrive on their doorstep unconscious, aside from rifling through their wallet, continues to elude me. Gathering a good portion of what little cash the team had, they paid for Lulu to be seen by one of the ER physicians. Examining the obvious deformity and swelling in her lower leg, and noticing her considerable discomfort, the doctor announced she would require an x-ray. I, with my less considerable medical education had reached the same conclusion for much less expense, but that's neither here nor there. Before we could see the x-ray tech, we again visited the cashier, doling out another chunk of the team's lunch money. Leaving the ER, and its waiting room of patients doubled-up on gurneys and holding their own yellowed I.V. bags, we entered a dark, foul-smelling x-ray room with peeling paint and a tech who rather brutishly maneuvered Lulu's leg into position. Without asking us to leave the room he began twisting and turning the antiquated x-ray machine's knobs and dials. We quickly volunteered to step outside so he could concentrate on his work. After once more paying the cashier to have the x-ray read, the physician came to the entirely unremarkable diagnosis that Lulu's leg was broken. Paying yet again to have some sort of art class reject cast crudely attached to her leg, we plopped Lulu into our car and departed, grateful we didn't have to pay for a valet we no longer had the money for. Still, Lulu needed a wheelchair to get around, and with the team freshly out of money, I decided it was my time to do something for international relations. I directed the team to the local mall where I used my credit card to purchase a wheelchair for the young lady. Later, I e-mailed a member of the L.A. County lifeguards to have them mail a "Baywatch" sticker to put on the wheelchair. My figuring was that if I paid for the wheelchair, then we get to use it as advertising space. Actually, as popular as "Baywatch" is overseas, Lulu was thrilled with the gift of style and mobility. I even treated the team to dinner in the revolving restaurant in the Pearl TV Tower. A bit of cruel irony perhaps that we had dinner so close to where Lulu broke her leg, but it turned out well and brought all the lifesavers closer together. After first meeting Yuan Jia Wei at the National Lifesaving Championships in Shanghai, he treated me to lunch with members of his staff in Beijing where he presented me with a beautiful plaque. Yet he was almost outdone by Liu Wei, who brought me as a guest to Jzuhai for the Chinese National Water Polo Championships. Having played intercollegiate water polo during my time at CMC, and overseas professionally, I appreciated how hard the Chinese are working to improve the standard of water polo in their country. Teams from different regions battled and I was able to observe the games from a VIP table poolside, along with a Spanish coach, Mario Lloret, hired by the Chinese to improve their training methods and strategies. Liu invited me to stay in the official's hotel during the tournament, and we ate together with the rest of the athletes and shared stories of athletic competitions gone by. Before commuting to the first day's games, Liu, along with other swimming and water polo officials, presented me with a medal. It's still stored, along with my other mementos from the trip, and represents all the common experiences, if not the same locations, during our respective athletic careers. With so much of various cities' economies dependent on tourism, it was remarkable just how many wrong turns I could make. A stop in Xian to see the terracotta warriors brought me first to the Tomb of Qin Shihuang, where my driver assured me that I would see the warriors here. It didn't look very crowded, and there weren't any of the expected postcard hawkers or gaudy signs, but I went along with his story. Well, it was a nice tomb, with a nice earthen mound, and some lovely flowers, but zero soldiers. Well how's this for a fine how do you do? Thousands of miles to see some clay warriors and it's all just a public relations myth? I hunted around, crept behind velvet ropes and probably risked arrest for trespassing and still no soldiers. Nearly ready to demand that the tour guide stand still and prepare to be covered in clay, I realized that my bus driver, obviously new to the area (wink, wink, nudge, nudge), had dropped me off several kilometers short of my intended destination. A short, if unnecessary, bus ride later and I got a great view of the real terracotta warriors. Row upon row of the timeless soldiers. It was an appreciation made even deeper by the struggle to actually find the darn place. At a certain point during my side trips, I began labeling things, unfairly perhaps, "ABT", meaning "Another Bloody Temple", and "YAP", for "Yet Another Pagoda". As impressive as all these monuments were, and they were impressively all over the place, I still developed a bit of a thick skin when it came to these priceless cultural markers. To my mind, there was more fun and companionship to be had in the stodgy old buildings, which again were quite lovely in their own right, than met the eye. While touring the Forbidden City, I noticed there was an area to the left, clearly marked off limits with a large, "No Tourists" sign. But what attracted my attention was the basketball hoop that a group of the guards were using. Ignoring the clear warning and figuring, "damn the torpedoes, full speed ahead," I leaned over the railing and with my best puppy-dog eyes asked if I could be included in their game. A few nervous moments passed. They looked to their supervisor. It was my moment of truth. I tried to look as unthreatening and "will treat the Forbidden City nicely" as possible. It worked! I must've spent an hour or more playing basketball with the very guards who were supposed to protect the monument. The fact that they put their guns aside to play basketball, gave me hope that there are ways to cross cultural boundaries. The game itself was fun, although my shot wasn't falling. Still, when you've got a good six inches on everyone else in the game, I was able to realize some of my Shaquille O'Neal fantasies. Everywhere I went in China, the same lessons kept popping up. A honking horn behind you in Beijing means you've got about two seconds to live. You may rent a hotel room, but someone else will control the key. Rules of the road are mere suggestions and the bigger vehicle has the right of way. Yet these hard-won lessons were countered by the generosity of spirit and warmth of the Chinese people. In southwest China, I boarded a bus in Songpan bound for Langmushi. It's about one hundred forty kilometers and my itinerary gave me the whole day to complete the journey. Plenty of time, or so I thought. The first bus was scheduled to leave Songpan at 6:30am. At least, that was our appointed departure time. In reality, and as per normal Chinese operations, we moved about 100 meters outside the city gates and stopped for half an hour to load up gear. With the roof threatening to sandwich us poor passengers under a load of what looked like several hundred kilograms, we moved one hundred meters down the road before our first (and I stress FIRST) breakdown. One fixed flat later and we were on our way. Up a long winding trail into the mountains, across a long saddle and all of it on dirt roads. Our second blowout seemed a more permanent problem, as two very flat tires on the left-rear had me seemingly stranded. However, luck (and a little bribery) saved the day. About thirty minutes and a short walk later, a gleaming, Space Shuttle of a bus, complete with television and heater, was flagged to a stop by our opportunistic (and not overly loyal) party. An animated discussion followed between the driver, who obviously didn't want passengers, and our bunch, which obviously didn't have much faith in our mechanic. My tactic was to get as close to the driver's window as possible, flash a big smile and hope for the best. When that failed miserably, I held a one hundred yuan note to my chest. That worked! My new bus was plush, carrying only crates of apples and oranges, presumably because we were out of the main tourist season and there wasn't enough passenger traffic. Either that, or perhaps passengers were steering clear of this particular bus which about fifteen minutes into our trip sprouted some sort of leak which required a stop every few kilometers to confirm that what was wrong, still was wrong. A few attempts at makeshift patches were made, but it was hard to tell any difference. Many more of these frequent stops later, we crested a high mountain pass to discover a bus that had only shortly before skidded off the rain and ice-slicked dirt road. Some passengers were starting to build a fire to fight the gathering snowstorm and plummeting temperature, rapidly approaching zero degrees Centigrade. We stopped and began loading people and gear. Some stayed behind, but at least we helped those that wanted it or needed it, despite our driver's grumblings. Darkness fell and we pulled into a tiny, truckstop of a town with just a short section of buildings on either side of the highway. A Moslem (Muslim) cafÈ with lights in the window and people eating inside looked so good that when our driver announced with some finality that I would be sleeping there, I was at least consoled by the fact that I'd finally get to eat. In sum, I traveled about fourteen hours to go a little less than one hundred forty kilometers. Yes, a blazing average of less than ten kilometers per hour. Whoo-hoo! So I'm stuck in this po-dunk little berg, but everybody's smiling, so I figure things can't be that bad. After being told a driver would be ready to take me to Langmushi the next day at 10:50am, I enjoyed the food, hospitality and discovered their electricity gets cut off after 10:00pm. Oh, well. As usual, the driver was nowhere to be seen the next day, and I gloomily ate in the same cafÈ that had appeared so inviting the evening prior. Lucky for me, Chinese hospitality and a little luck held out and I was practically thrown out into the street and onto a bus around noon that I was promised was going to Langmushi. And wonder of wonders, I made it. A great little Tibetan village. Incredible hikes, good yak and all the fixin's. The Durfee Foundation grant allowed me
the trip of a lifetime, and afforded experiences that had they
been described to me ahead of time, I never would have believed.
I'm more appreciative, however, for the friendships I have developed
and continue to cultivate. Recently a friend from the Hong Kong
Life Saving Society visited and we were able to take in a minor
league baseball game. I continue to e-mail with many friends in
China and look forward to being able to return their hospitality
sometime in the not-too-distant future. Thank you for your support
and your belief that my project could make an impact.
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