Many of you have written me asking about my daily life here. Naturally, teaching droves of little black eyed children of Genghis is endlessly exciting. But I am a misanthrope—a man of tacit inclination, whose wilful nature often takes him far afield of the average man, even so far as the Orient for a case in point. I am often given to long walks and ambling about the countryside, nourishing my roots apart from the many toxins of man. But my roots have gone wanting in China—for nourishing water, and soil to spread in. It is a country much parched of the things we westerners consider natural to the condition of being human. Of invention, curiosity, individuality, initiative, originality, opinion—even of thought, the most basic tenet of human existence, goes thoroughly neglected in this land of milk and lye. Of one thing it does not lack, and that is kindness. The Chinese will exert themselves to a great degree to offer you their service, though I think inwardly this is a feat of awe at seeing a foreigner, and not due to an innate benevolence bestowed by whatever gristly gods they worship. And it is a simple kindness—such as given by a child, or by a loving owner to its pet. It holds nothing of the sanctity or value that such an act carries when it is given between two beings of equal worth.

So to quench my soul, I decided one afternoon to go for a walk. I took a bus into town, and from some unknown point I departed and set off. The hour was early, and I was immediately thrown into the hustle and bustle of morning life. Shopkeepers were setting up their stands, vendors arranging their goods, and farmers unloading massive trucks of reeking vegetables. The morning was crisp, and I wrapped my scarf tighter around my face. This served a dual purpose of keeping me warm, and concealing my alien origins. This wasn’t aided when I stopped to take pictures of them, but I paid it no heed. Though, I do wonder how those folks at National Geographic do it. Every time I try to capture a Chinaman in the act of being Chinese, he stops and shoos me away. Where do these gorgeous candid photographs come from? Do the photographers bribe their subjects? Is it all a scam? I must discover their secret.

I wandered about the city for several hours, losing myself in the byways and alleys of the crumbling city, discovering new realms of fetor in decaying, twilit grottoes that were once the halls of men. There were several buildings that were either in the process of collapsing, or had not been finished, which—through neglect or forgetfulness—had been converted to trash storage. Buildings of indeterminate age, made of concrete and supported by nighted avenues of pillars, housed mounds upon mephitic mounds of noxious garbage. This scene extended from the mouth of these Tartarian caverns as far as I could see into the shadows, where lurked untold horrors of atavistic human atrophy.

I continued onward, through mounting incredulity and finally stupor, making my way to copse of trees between several apartment buildings. The area was walled off, but there was a small gate guarded by a compost pile. After several moments of indecision, I decided to venture inside and see what came of it. After all, it isn’t often one finds trees in China. Beyond the gate, I was rather at a loss. There were trees, of course, but they were sparsely planted and separated by odd, irregular mounds of earth. Trash was strewn about, but this was unremarkable, and so I made my way to one of the strange mounds. On top of it was a flat stone, lying on its side, with what appeared to be inscriptions. I was no student of Chinese, but this seemed by all tokens to be a grave. Yet the grave was desecrated. Trash was spread everywhere, and the tombstone itself was sundered, cracked and hewn by forces unknown. As I looked around, this was the scene in all directions: graves, with head stones upturned or broken, some barrows partially unearthed. Of the translations I could discern, I found one ornate stone half-buried beneath the soil which read, “As I lived in life, so I shall live in death.” It seemed to me a sad token.

I kept walking, finally into the countryside, leaving behind the shambling buildings and outlying villages. I followed a river for some time, passing through more small villages of little note, but enjoying the openness and greenery of the fields. There was no nature, however. Every tree, every shrub, even the tiniest sapling had been hand planted and had its position chosen. It was all contrived, and so the experience lacked something of the restfulness I had anticipated; though, it was an impressive lesson in human industry. I came then upon a factory. While the guard was relieving himself behind the guard house, I let myself in and went to see what I could of Chinese factories. It was a large complex, and after spending fifteen minutes wandering inside and out, I couldn’t fathom its purpose. Large machines with water cooled fan belts powered something that eventually produced large rolls of what appeared to be paper, but I couldn’t be sure. The whole place smelled strongly of cooked rice, though this might owe more to the people who worked there than what they manufactured. In any case, no one seemed to bother about my being there, so after a few pictures and furtive peaks into dark corners, I took my leave and walked out. The guard seemed surprised to see me leave.

Finally I came to a river, and after I was frustrated in crossing by a locked gate, I succeeded in climbing over a barricade and letting myself into what appeared to be some sort of nursery. I wandered about the grounds for a while, in and out of groves of bamboo and tall, evenly spaced trees, until I found some fields. I realised I’d been walking for a good while and it was growing late in the afternoon, so I decided to head home. Though I hadn’t a clew where I was, I knew I could follow my footsteps backwards and arrive safely where I had left off. However, as any avid wanderer/explorer will tell you, going home on the same route you left by is immeasurably wearisome, to say nothing of boring. Yet I didn’t know which way to proceed otherwise. At that moment, a train grumbled past in the distance, and it occurred to me there was a train station in Xuchang. If I merely followed the train tracks back to town, I could get there without any trouble.

After crossing a few fields, I found a high, concrete fence baring access to the train tracks, as well as extensive signs in Chinese posted every few feet. I felt certain these signs were encouraging me to climb the fence, offering guidance and promising a quicker way home. It was easy work to hop the fence and once on the other side, I discovered a lovely paved sidewalk, heading right back into town. No more cross country trekking through muddy fields and fens for me! It was the expressway home.

After walking at a good pace for about an hour, I heard some voices ahead of me. I had my hoodie pulled tightly over my head and so I hoped, as many furtive animals do, that I would remain invisible as long as I couldn’t see them. As I drew near the voices, they suddenly picked up in volume and began shouting, in what I can only imagine is anger in Chinese, and making as much ruckus as any common rook or squabbling jackdaw. I paid them no heed, and continued walking. Perhaps this was one of those things that would just go away? No go. A few moments later I heard footsteps rapidly approaching behind me and after another second a rough hand was on my shoulder. I turned to find a tall man dressed in black, angrily shouting at me. I expressed wonder and confusion at his concern, and vainly attempted to convey a sense of honest innocence. I had apparently come to the wrong shop, and he gruffly pointed me to a small iron gate in the fence. I followed him to it.

On the other side was a small, white building with a drive leading to the street. I presumed (rather, intended) that this concluded the episode and I wouldn’t keep them from their afternoon tea any longer. I made for the gate with what I hoped was a casual stroll, and I soon heard more angry voices. A moment later that hand was on my shoulder and the man spun me around, wagging his finger in my face. I felt I had endured enough of this castigation at this point, and responded with the little Chinese I knew, which is essentially, “Thank you, I don’t understand, I’m a teacher!” He didn’t seem pleased by this and pointed me in the direction of the building. I declined and continued walking towards the street. At this, he laid both hands on me and shook me. I’m not familiar with the customs of every culture, and perhaps this is a friendly gesture in China, a way of saying, “Good day sir! I hold you in high esteem. Will you join me for some tea?” But where I come from, thems a fightin gesture. With as much cowboy diplomacy as I could muster, I kindly removed him from my person and told him where he and China could respectfully go. At this point he pulled a wallet from his pocket and letting it drop, I felt my heart sink a little. He was the happy owner of a shiny gold badge that read Police.

I’m not sure if you’ve heard the rumours about Chinese police or not. I won’t lay them out here for you, but in short, they aren’t good. I think the man saw something of this feeling in my eyes when I saw his badge, and it must have made him smile. I resigned myself for whatever was to come, and followed him back up to his hut. Inside was a dark little cave with two chairs and a little bunk bed of steel. A pair of handcuffs and a sinister looking little truncheon hung from the wall, and I thought I’d better keep my wits about me if I wanted to be home in time for tea. The man proceeded to ask me a litany of questions, all of which I responded to with, “Tain bu dong” (I don’t understand). Somewhere in his mind he decided this obstacle could be overcome by writing his demands down. I explained to him that there wasn’t any kind of Chinese I spoke, but he diligently scribbled something, possibly a threat, possibly his mother’s recipe for dog soufflé, and handed it to me. I shook my head, and wrote something else down. He watched, excitedly, awaiting whatever revelation my words might reveal. When I handed him the paper, his disappointment was profound—it was written, of course, in English. We had come to an impasse.

So he got on the horn and rang up HQ, presumably to tell them there was a white devil on the tracks plotting to bring down China. I had no idea. I was helpless in my defence! Only ingratiating civility would save me now, or an act of God—and if my experiences here are any indication, God doesn’t know this country exists, or has turned a blind eye in its direction. After tedious minutes, the man gestured that he would call a cab, and I would ride back to town in this way. I insisted this wasn’t necessary, and that he needn’t trouble himself. “Oh, it’s no trouble at all,” I could imagine him saying, a troubling twinkle in his eyes. I indicated that I could happily walk back to town. I don’t know if he understood me, but he laughed anyways, which seemed terribly out of place in my predicament.

After it became clear there was no cab coming, he indicated that I was to ride with him on his motor bike back to town. This was a new experience on multiple fronts, as I’ve never been on a motorcycle, nor have I ridden with a policeman. I was breaking new territory, more speedily that I might have strictly preferred. So climbing on behind the officer, I held onto his shoulders and away we went. In America, they have recently implemented the policy that talking on your cellphone while driving your car is not only unadvisable, but occasionally lethal. This is to say nothing of motor bikes, which I assumed natural sense of self preservation would dictate as foolhardy. However, I forgot the trusty maxim, “It’s China, man”. Here, all bets are off. At the first intersection, the policeman answered his buzzing cellphone, and the already precarious ride became a chaotic dance of death between whirling busses and impatient taxicabs. Stoplights seldom purpose anything more than colourful decoration between intersections—festive ornaments of mysterious origins—and to navigate them, at the best of times, is a pursuit in masterful strategy. To do so while clinging for life to the back of a motor bike operated by a distracted man with one hand is something the Fremen might promote a chieftain for.

In any case, we made our way through the thoroughfare of bustling vehicles miraculously unscathed, and headed towards what appeared to be the train station. This was one of the places I had asked to be deposited, since our ultimate purpose here was unclear to me. As we drew nearer and nearer, I dared hope this was my salvation. And there it was—looming ahead, the leviathan of eroding mortar and concrete, and the answer to all my fears and doubts of the last hour. Yet suddenly with only thirty yards to our destination, we banked hard right and disappeared into a tunnel. A bright light flashed, displaying the proud banner of the Chinese Police force, standing in line, saluting the Red flag before the Great Wall of China.

Following another long hour of sitting in a dark room somewhere in the depths of that byzantine police station, I was taken in a car back to the university. The police followed me as I led them to the dean of foreign teachers, and it was eventually explained that I was just a stupid American who had overstepped his boundaries and, I assured them, wouldn’t let it happen again. They told me, through a diligent proxy, that if I had been Chinese, there would have been a stern penalty of prison time and a hefty fine to accompany my infraction. But, because I was American, they said they could let it slide. I never thought being foreign and completely ignorant of the language would ever work to my advantage, but lo and behold they invited me afterwards to come back to the station and share some drinks. I declined, but I think someday it wouldn’t be a bad idea to treat them to some good, old fashioned American hospitality. In China, it seems like being friends with the police can only be a good thing.