Such is the situation facing many young adults nowadays. In recent years, and especially in Britain, the “gap year” has soared in popularity, offering the adventurous an opportunity to escape the monotony of normal life and discover new frontiers.

Unsurprisingly, numerous organizations have sprung up to cater to such desires. They offer dozens of placements across the world, varying in content from charity work, to unpaid internships, to paid positions teaching English, all for a price.

And what a price!

A six-month teaching position in China will drain your bank account of just over £2,000, with the traveler earning between £180 and £200 a month. (That’s about £6.50 a day. How much did you earn doing that paper route?) A mere two-week voluntary placement caring for children with disabilities and special needs in Vietnam will cost £1,295. And an eight week unpaid medical internship in Namibia will set you back just under £3,500. It should also be noted that these prices do not include flights and, with the exception of the Chinese teaching position, do not include visa costs either.

Now just mull those figures over for a minute. It’s a complete rip-off, right? Who in their right mind would pay thousands of pounds to work for, at most, a pittance? Well, about 200,000 youngsters a year, according to thisismoney.co.uk.

But why not just make some inquiries, find a worthy cause and be on your way for a fraction of the cost?

The answer: security. Many would-be travelers (and especially their parents) are understandably nervous about the prospect of entering a country with its own culture and language. I can recall vividly my first impressions of China as I stepped off the plane and made my way into Beijing. I was absolutely overwhelmed. Without my local gap year contact, I would have been utterly lost. Gap year companies therefore act as the knowledgeable middleman, arranging the more daunting prospects of in-country travel, establishing communication with the placement and ensuring the traveler’s safety. The fee is still outrageous, certainly, but who can put a price on peace of mind?

But then there is the question of just how trustworthy the gap year companies actually are. Very, very few are cons, but how forthcoming with the truth are the reputable ones being?

Accompanying the information for the Chinese teaching position are a number of pictures, the majority of which feature young, smiling children. According to ethicalvolunteering.org, that’s a red flag right there. Actual international development agencies are very careful when using images of children, but tourism companies frequently use such pictures to put a friendly face on the underprivileged. Are such images really representative of the reality that will confront a traveler once they leave the airport and enter the unknown?

Another warning sign is the language that gap year companies employ in describing their placements. How much is truth and how much is hyperbole? The Vietnam placement claims the traveler’s role to be of the utmost importance, helping to raise the children’s self-esteem and boost their future prospects. But from personal experience, I know that getting through to kids with Autism or Down’s syndrome can be a long, arduous process. Travelers going in expecting to make a real difference in the few weeks or months could easily be left feeling like they’ve made no significant contribution whatsoever.

There’s also the underlying issue of how much good sending volunteers to such places achieves. Often, cheap labor is not in short supply. More desperately needed is money to buy equipment. How much of the traveler’s vast payment goes towards helping their chosen community?

It’s not all bad, however. Some organizations are far more forthcoming with the stark realities of the gap year. Vso.org.uk is one such group. Technically they aren’t even a gap year company – they’re a charity. In 2007, VSO spoke out against gap year providers, drawing attention to their habit of raising unrealistic expectations. This opposition to the established concept of the gap year shows in the way VSO advertise their own placements. They are candid with the fact that volunteering is demanding, that only certain people are right for the job and that they recruit volunteers based on what the target community has requested.

And yet the popularity of the gap year endures (I should know, as I write this I’m currently on one) and is showing no sign of decreasing. Even with the current economic climate, the gap year remains a sought-after activity, with many hoping that the experience will benefit them when the time comes to seek out employment. Indeed, a recent survey by YouGov found that 63% of human resources professionals agreed that a constructive gap year spent volunteering or gaining work experience made a job application more attractive.

So, expensive as it can be, there is at least one tangible benefit to be gained from traveling.

Still, somewhere out there, the person who invented the gap year is laughing all the way to the bank.

——-

Editor’s note: Having had some expeirence of working with them, The World of Chinese can point readers looking for internship opportunities in China to www.getin2china.com/.  The operatives here had the courtesy of practically forcing us to interview prospective candidates on Skype. This can only be a good thing for all concerned as it enables both parties to determine if they desire each other’s services. The same can not be said for other internship companies or similar ilk, which will happily fire CVs at potential employers with little or no concern for whether their skills are compatible.

Octavian, aka Emperor Augustus

Located at opposite ends of Eurasia, they couldn’t get much further apart (without crossing oceans) and dividing them further still were another two empires: the Parthians and the Kurshans. Yet despite such obstacles, these two behemoths of ancient human society did manage to make contact.

Official communication was brief and sporadic. Chinese exploration of the “western regions” was begun by the imperial envoy Zhang Qian in the 2nd century BCE, which eventually led to the Chinese embassy that Florus recorded. In 97 CE Ban Chao, general of the western regions, sent another envoy, but the mission failed.

It wasn’t a one-sided effort. Rome made its fair share of attempts to learn more of the mysterious empire to the east. In 166 CE, an envoy sent by Emperor Antoninus (though no one knows which Antoninus – helpfully there were two in a row) arrived in China, the first of several, according to Chinese historians.

And there may well have been more, but identifying them is rather problematic. The Romans referred to the Chinese as “Seres”, but unfortunately they used the same term to describe a number of other eastern peoples. As such, figuring out whether the sources actually refer to a Chinese person is, at times, impossible.

China was no better. From the outset, their perceptions of the Roman Empire were influenced heavily by their mythological assumptions of the west. Such misunderstanding can be seen in their name for Rome: Da Qin (Great Qin, after the founding dynasty of the Chinese Empire). They thought of Rome as a “counter-China” at the other end of the world, like a reflection themselves. The reality would no doubt have shocked them.

Emperor Ming Hongwu

Further Roman embassies are recorded to have arrived in China over the following centuries. Even after the imperial capital moved from Rome to Constantinople (modern day Istanbul) in 330 CE (creating what we now call the Byzantine Empire) there remained some contact between the two. As far forward in history as 1371 CE, the newly enthroned Emperor Ming Hongwu sent his Manifesto of Ascension to the Byzantine Emperor, informing the Romans of China’s latest dynastic conflicts and letting them know that he had come out on top.

Too far apart to pose a mutual threat, the rulers of Rome and China instead displayed an almost childlike curiosity toward each other. It is a rare thing in history, for two war-like peoples to take a genuine interest in one another, without an ulterior motive. Of course, while official contact was made only for curiosity’s sake, the merchant classes of both societies had other ideas.

In his “Natural History”, the Roman philosopher Pliny the Elder wrote, somewhat moodily, that “By the lowest reckoning, India, Seres and the Arabian peninsula take from our Empire hundreds of millions of sesterces every year: that is how much our luxuries and women cost us.” He was referring, largely, to silk. From the 1st century BCE the Romans were crazy for the stuff, and with so much Latin coin to be had, the Chinese (amongst others) were happy to feed their obsession. So popular was the fabric that the Roman Senate tried to legislate against it, both on economic and moral grounds. Silk clothing was so light and transparent that, as Pliny the Elder gleefully recorded, it could both “cover a woman [and] at the same moment reveal her naked charms.” Perhaps he thought the price was worth paying after all?

In exchange, the West exported high-quality Roman glass, along with gold-embroidered rugs, gold-colored cloth and sea silk, a material made from the hairs of Mediterranean shellfish. They also traded asbestos cloth, known for its fire-resistant qualities (though not its tendency to cause cancer, unfortunately).

As lucrative as such trade was, it did not constitute a direct connection between the two empires. The abovementioned Parthians and Kurshans still held the land in between, jealously guarding their profitable role as trade intermediaries. Nonetheless, the exchange of goods represented an important, if modest, blending of cultures.

Religion too, as it has a habit of doing, found its way across the geographical expanse. Following the Byzantine Empire’s gradual adoption of Christianity from the 4th century CE onward, numerous Orthodox Christian sects (or heresies, if you asked the Emperor) sprung up. One such was the Nestorian Church, which arrived in China in 635 CE. Having escaped the clutches of one Emperor, the Nestorians did remarkably well in the East, until another emperor (the Chinese one, this time) ordered them wiped out.

The distance between Rome and China was vast, and between were the less-than-friendly empires of Parthia and Kurshan (click to enlarge)

The Nestorians’ experience was typical of the overall Romano-Chinese relationship, which could be described as “almost, but not quite.” However, an upcoming documentary by New Century Media has the potential to alter this perception. The documentary aims to explore the Xinjiang deserts in search of the lost civilization of Quici. Supposedly, hidden within the region’s “Thousand-Buddha Caves” are remnants of this society, which they claim combined elements of Greco-Roman, Persian, Indian and Han Chinese cultures. A bold statement, but if it holds true, it could radically alter modern understandings of the relationship between ancient Rome and China.

But until then, you’ll have to be content with knowing that these two magnificent civilizations developed largely independent of each other. Each had their own social order, their own gods, their own forms of government, and so despite the envoys and trade agreements they shared, they had little lasting effect on one another.

And unless some monumental historical discovery is made in the future, we will probably never know which one of them would have won in a fight.

Don’t pretend you weren’t thinking about it. You know you were.

My money’s on Rome, but that’s just me.

The uptick in demand for untainted comestibles has contributed to a resurgence of more traditional farming practices over the past decade, with practitioners embracing the benefits in spite of the increased cost of production.

Organic dairy products have been available for some time in Western grocery stores such as Jenny Lou’s and April Gourmet, but sourcing pesticide-free fruits and vegetables has often proven more difficult. While many small organic farms offer delivery services, finding a reliable farm and making arrangements to receive weekly deliveries can seem a daunting task for non-Chinese speakers.

Fortunately for them, farmers’ markets have begun to pop up in major cities like Shanghai and Beijing. However, while the Chinese National Organic Standard (CNOPS), which is based on the Western organic certification model, came into effect in 2005, most farmers at these markets do not have organic certification, which can be costly and time-consuming to procure.

According to Beijing Farmer’s Market organizer Chang Tianle, organic certification can cost a farm anywhere from RMB10,000 to 100,000. On top of that, the process takes about three years. Most farms cannot afford this steep cost, and so the farmers’ market is based on trust rather than certification.

“All farmers involved in the [Beijing] Farmers Market do not use pesticides, herbicides or artificial fertilizer. Most go well beyond this, but this is our minimum,” says Dannan Hodge, a market volunteer and co-founder of Highrise Homestead. Each farm has been visited and reviewed by market workers, she says, and farm transparency requirements mean that someone can spring a visit on them at any time.

“Having visited six of the farms personally and become friends with many of the farmers, they fully understand and believe in the system of organic farming,” Hodge says.

Therese Rose Zhang of God’s Grace Garden is one such farmer who sells her produce at the market each week.

“It is my mission of life,” she says of organic farming. Rose rises with the sun at 5 am and keeps going until 8 pm every day for a low salary, but the money isn’t important to her, she says.  “We cannot live just for money; we live because we have life.”

“Thirty years ago, all markets in Beijing were like this,” says Yan Xiaohui, manager of Little Donkey Farm. “But then, many young people from the country became migrant workers and so only old men were left on the farm. It’s a big problem in China.” As a result, Yan explains, more farmers turned to pesticides as an easy way to keep up with the demand for food.

Today’s organic movement is striving to overcome that chemical dependency, yet the issue of trust remains. Last year, Wal-Mart was slammed with an RMB2.7 million fine for falsely labeling pork as organic in their Chongqing stores, making consumers newly skittish. Add to that the concerns that air pollutants infiltrate the soil when it rains, and it becomes difficult to determine just how organic China’s crops can really be.

But some effort is better than nothing, and local organic farms and dairies often offer tours to show their consumers the measures they take to provide safe products. As the balcony gardeners and the crowds that swarm China’s urban farmers’ markets can attest, the organic movement is a welcome one.

To get a firsthand look at the organic fare on offer in Beijing and a chance to meet some of the people mentioned in the article, head down to The Hutong this Saturday, May 19, for their organic food fair. The event will offer talks on composting and organic farming in Beijing, as well as cooking demonstrations and a rooftop fair showcasing goods including locally produced jams, honey, bagels, milk and cheese.

In Chinese, the term refers to something many of us can associate with – the downward spiral of stress and despair that comes from having too much work and too little time to look after your health properly.

The phrase was coined in Chinese media as part of coverage of the plight of 30-something male white-collar workers, who increasingly suffer psychological problems due to the pressures of balancing their working life with the need to provide their family with a standard of living acceptable to busy-body relatives.

Readers who associate with this miserable state of being can find refuge in this anthem, penned by our intern Shu Yang (杨舒):

In this hot summer,

在炎热的夏天里，

Zài yánrè de xiàtiān lǐ,

I still have to go to work under the scorching sun,

还要顶着烈日去上班，

Háiyào dǐngzhe lièrì qù shàngbān

and won’t be able to return home until the stars are shinning.

披着星星回家，

Pīzhe xīngxing huíjiā,

The high pressure weight is so heavy, that I can barely stand against it,

高压压得我都直不起来了，

Gāoyā yā de wǒ dōu zhí bù qǐláile,

It’s really not so easy being part of this pressure cooker family.

高压锅族真心不容易啊。

Gāoyāguō zú zhēnxīn bùróngyì a.

Chinese kitchens filled with stoves that can double as jet engines are simply amazing to me. The heat and noise mix together to create a cacophony that is really hard to work in, yet the chefs spend hours flipping woks all day and night. Every temple, whether Buddhist, shaman, or Confucian, has sacrificial and ornamental candles, incense and offerings, filling it with holy smoke. Factories all over China manufacture everything, thus the welding torch and laser cutter are ubiquitous machines that send sparks bouncing over the cement floors. Ancient chinese medicine in its quest to balance the yin and yang relies on fire as a healing tool. Fire is everywhere you go.

At a shamanistic altar in Guizhou

Floating candles outside a Confucius temple in Nanjing

The kitchen inside a 5-star restaurant in Changzhou

The kitchen inside a 5-star restaurant in Changzhou

Welders in Changzhou

Welders in Changzhou

A popcorn pressure cooker on the street in Qingdao

Incense burning in a Buddhist temple in Qingdao

Jewelry making in Yunnan

Moxibustion in Liaoning

Wall mural in Beijing

Candles burning inside a Nanjing memorial

The morning sun crawled over the peaks, leaked through the haze of fog and slipped its way through the dense quilt of trees to illuminate the monastery where I’d taken shelter for the night after a six hour hike. The previous day’s rain hadn’t dissipated the fog, as it often does in the mountains of Hunan Province, my temporary home in China. The deep mist persisted through the night and threatened to extend my two-day hike into a three-day excursion. I zipped up my rain shell and clipped my pack onto my shoulders; my neck gave a muted crack as I tightened the strap across my chest. My watch read an even 6:00am.

As is often the case for foreign teachers (外教 wàijiào) in China, I wasn’t told about my week-long vacation until just two days before it began. “You can have a travel,” my colleague explained. “It will be good for you to see China.” Having already completed the Tiger Leaping Gorge circuit, Sichuan Province seemed ideal for a week’s sojourn: a place well-known for its mouth-numbing spices, its beautiful flora, and its ability to retain expats far beyond their budgeted time within its borders. A few days into my vacation, I boarded a bus from the capital of Chengdu to Mount Emei, one of the Four Sacred Buddhist Mountains of China and a pretty safe bet for a bumbling foreigner to visit.

Golden Buddha statue at the summit of Mount Emei

I snuck to the main door of the monastery to determine how many layers to have ready once I reached a higher altitude, but a monk stopped me before I could get near the giant, brass handles. The warps in his face resembled the wax of a melting candle and his robes clung to his skinny frame like a damaged windsock.

“It’s too early,” he said in Mandarin. “You need to eat breakfast.”

His tone did not invite discussion, so I resigned to eat whatever fuel the monk could provide for me before trudging through the rain. Unlike many of the conversations I have with middle-aged Chinese men, the monk and I didn’t speak of money; rather, our polite banter lingered on the topic of food and whether or not I could tolerate the spice in Sichuan. Eventually, my vocabulary was exhausted, our cultural exchange dwindled, and the monk served me a bowl of congee topped with zhacai (榨菜,  a pickled mustard plant stem famous in Sichuan). I burned the roof of my mouth as I rapidly knocked back the steaming bowl’s contents.

“I’m full,” I said as polished the bowl and patted my stomach. “I’ll go now.”

I paid for my meal with a crumpled RMB5 bill. As the monk took my payment, he mumbled a word not recognizable to my very limited grasp of the language.

“Excuse me,” I interjected, “What did you say?”

“Mon-key,” he replied in heavily accented English. He then immediately reverted to Mandarin. “Please wait a moment.”

The monk scurried into a dusty room near the entrance and, after a hollow clattering, he emerged with a bamboo pole about two meters in length and two inches in diameter. With a severe look on his face, he struck the stone floor a few times with the end of the pole and then gently handed the rod over to me. I smiled and thanked him, but the monk’s face did not lose its stern expression.

“Mon-key,” he repeated.

When I finally set off, the fog layered the continuous stairs of Mount Emei; its trail disappeared into the mist. With a full stomach and a cramp in my side, I pushed through the flurry of rain in a desperate hope that the sky would clear before I reached the 3,099-meter peak. My watch, its face spotted with droplets of moisture, read 8:00 am—a full two hours since my departure from the monastery and I’d only made it a tenth of the way. The largest slope of the mountain still lay in front of me and, after a few exhausted huffs, I stepped forward to climb the mist-obscured, heavily-ridged snake of concrete. The stairs glimmered with a thin layer of wetness and, for a few seconds, I debated whether to conquer the mountain as most Chinese tourists prefer to: by crowded buses and expensive cable cars.

A quarter of my way up the slope, my head tilted upwards to gauge how many more grueling steps I had to endure before I could make time to rest. Through the dense fog, I spotted a faint, lumbering, bipedal shadow tracing my movements. I froze. The ominous, gray shape mirrored my abrupt change in movement. Carefully, I began to creep forward and the shape took on a fur-lined form. A rather skinny Tibetan macaque was my observer, its hair a slick, golden-brown and its mouth slightly agape. In a syncopated rhythm, its head and shoulders bobbed about in order to get a better look at my comparatively hairless figure. Like me, the macaque’s face was a deep pink with cold and its breath dwindled in the air with brief puffs of steam.

Either frightened or simply pleased with its observation, the monkey soon turned around and scampered back into the clouds of fog and rain. I gave a steamy sigh of relief, the white-knuckled grip on my bamboo pole loosened, and my eyes drifted back to my soggy trainers as my concrete march continued. Only a few steps later though, the thin, staccato chattering of primates broke through the haze and my sharp glance upwards revealed the scout backed by a small congregation of red-faced brothers, their sizes varied but their stares unwaveringly focused on the sweaty foreigner.

More than a dozen monkeys lined the winding staircase, their expressions stoic but undoubtedly honed in on each, deliberate step of my trudge—it seemed as if even their blinks came in unison. Forming untouchable, breathing handrails, the primates were hunched, animated gargoyles on the skirts of the staircase. With no alternate route and no choice but to continue, I opened my palms as a peaceful gesture and proceeded up the stairs, careful not to make any sudden movements or any signals of discomfort.

“It doesn’t matter. It doesn’t matter,” I cooed under my breath as I made my way through the corridor of fur and beady eyes. The expression served to comfort me more than it did the primates. “Don’t kill me. Don’t kill me.”

Like the fog on Mount Emei, the small horde of monkeys failed to wane as I ascended. Most of my anxiety appeared unjustified—the monkeys didn’t bear their teeth and only a few gave an indifferent stir as I passed by them and their black and silver babies. Convinced that I was one with the macaques, I felt a wave of confidence surging through me and my pace quickened to escape their expressionless faces.

No more than a few legs ahead of me sat the largest monkey of the troop: the muscles of his torso tucked behind a dense layer of firm fat and his whiskers like those of a Civil War general. His seat was plum in the middle of my path. Like many alpha males—simian and otherwise—who exert their dominance over their underlings, the chief of this tribe did not devote his attention to the soft chatter of the young; rather, he focused solely on his penis.

Not the monkey king himself, but another Tibetan macaque who looks to have been in a few scraps

The monk’s anti-monkey measures ultimately proved pointless as I gave three sharp raps of my bamboo pole on the stair in front of me—the monkey king lifted his head, his eyes half open, and gave an unimpressed snort of steam from his snout. A slight twitch of his eyes informed me that I was being measured, sized-up. Skepticism swept over the macaque’s face, as if to say: That’s it? I struck my bamboo against the stairs once more and the disinterested primate went back to the far more important matter of prodding his genitals.

My next movements were to be uncomfortably intimate as strategy and safety were both rendered meaningless by the macaque’s refusal to budge from his stony throne. Determined to show confidence behind my trickles of cold sweat, I tiptoed to the side of the staircase and around the monkey king. Faint chirps of objection and warning sounded from the audience behind me as my trainers inched closer to their chief—a guttural noise emanated from his rounded belly as an obvious hint of discontentment. The dull, electric sensation of being watched surged through me and, while I passed the alpha, the group of spectators grew eerily silent.

A smaller breed of monkey snapped on the ascent

I passed unscathed.

Suddenly, though, my bamboo pole jerked back. My grip was a tense vice and the harsh tug spun me around to reveal a set of arms, long and toned from a lifetime of tree-swinging, clutched on the opposite end. Eyes ablaze, the monkey king was not satisfied with my lack of a snack offering. I pulled on the stick to retrieve it, but on the other side sat the hairy, 40-pound anchor of raw monkey. In retrospect, foregoing the bamboo would’ve been the safest option, but, nerves on overdrive, I clung to the pole.

In an instinctual change of tactic, my weight shifted and I gave the bamboo an aggressive thrust in the macaque’s direction. His eyes widened and the beast stumbled backward as he released his grip to regain balance. I smirked, smug with satisfaction. The monkey king blinked a few times, his face contorted with rage. His lips curled back to revel a set of twisted, bamboo-stained incisors.

Panic.

As the macaque sprung forward, my perception of time decelerated to the speed of an action scene in a Shaw Brothers movie. However, unlike Huang Feihong (a revered turn-of-the-century folk hero and martial artist), I was incapable of twirling my pole in a Shaolin monk-like flourish to knock the primate back to his rightful place on the evolutionary ladder—I was cemented to the stairs. He lunged toward me, his surprisingly large hands extended, and managed to nab a fistful of my left pant leg before I could step aside. A yelp escaped me and I frantically shook my leg to pry the fabric free. For a few seconds, the monkey king’s hold stayed solid and I winced, anticipating the piercing pain of his bite. But, having proved his point and demonstrated his superior masculinity, the primate unexpectedly released my pants and I tumbled up the steps.

With the exception of his surge toward my shin, the monkey king and I didn’t break eye contact during our altercation. Even as I scampered up the remainder of the slope, our stares were inexorably linked. Mine was a gaze that reeked of terror. His, though, was a glare that simply said: “Go home, Lao Wai.”

If you live in Beijing then you’ve probably heard of Buyi, who play frequently at 2 Kolegas and folk-rock enclaves like Jianghu Jiuba or Jiangjinjiu, but you might not know how important they are to China’s indie folk scene. In my ignorance, I thought of them as a local gig band – until, that is, I checked out their Douban and saw that they had almost 14,000 fans, which, to put it in perspective, is more than renowned folk experimental artist Xiao He, and twice the number of widely praised folk-rockers Nanwu.

Part of the reason Buyi (whose Chinese name 布衣, which means “the common people”) are so well loved is that they’re among the oldest folk rock bands around. Hailing from the Ningxia capital of Yinchuan, Buyi started up in 1995 after several of their members returned from studying at Beijing’s MIDI Music School. “We all liked rock music, and would listen to music together every day, singing songs,” says Buyi singer Wu Dingyue. “After a while I wasn’t satisfied and wanted to sing my own songs, so I just started my own band.”

Though Ningxia, which out in China’s wild west, boasts a rich history of traditional music, the live music scene in Yinchuan left something to be desired. “At that time the Ningxia music scene was pretty small, and most were cover bands; almost none of them made their own music,” Wu says. “There was no place to play shows, no bars, and you had to arrange all the shows yourself.” So in 2000, the band made a leap of faith, and hightailed it out to Beijing. “We needed to be going to more shows to work ourselves out.”

Though the group only knew a few players in Beijing’s burgeoning rock scene, they soon formed their own community. The band settled in a courtyard and began living the hippie dream, which soon enough inspired scores of other musicians from their hometown to move to Beijing.

Since then, a veritable Ningxia community of musicians has built up around Buyi and 2 Kolegas, and the group have released several studio albums that showcase a mature, evocative mix of traditional folk and modern rock. Their music marries the big-guitar sound of 90s Western rock with the delicate whimsy of traditional northwestern folk, creating an earthy mix with the guzheng (古筝) and hulusi (葫芦丝) alongside electric guitars and trumpet. The result is music for nomads: a soundtrack that, with rollicking riffs, gypsy-like beats and the rough, visceral growl of singer Wu Ningyue, paints the mystery and romance of Ningxia’s Wild West plains.

Check out the band playing a rendition “Fall” (秋天) from their 1997 album of the same name at the 2004 Midi Festival:

The new YCIS campus is just one part of the BP International Education Park (IEP), a larger educational development that will also house a new Yew Wah International Education School (YWIES) for local Chinese students.

The two schools aim to work together to combine the best of Eastern and Western education methods, across early childhood, primary and secondary school, as well as pre-university preparation.

The ceremony, which was attended by over 300 guests, was opened by two children - one Chinese and one foreign - to represent the project’s ambition to foster shared learning experiences amongst Chinese and foreign students. Guests were then treated to guzheng and violin performances, Italian Opera and Latin dance. performances that embodied the park’s vision of fostering global cross-cultural cooperation.

“Our unique cooperative model, which combines Chinese and Western Co-Principles and Co-Teachers, creates a dual culture learning environment and exemplifies acceptance and tolerance of diverse ideas, values and customs,” said IEP co-founder Dr. Betty Chan.

Yizhuang, which lies in the southeastern suburbs of Beijing and is part of one of the largest economic development zones in the city, is tipped to become the new Shunyi when the capital’s second airport opens a few years down the road.

The first phase of the IEP’s construction will be completed in 2013.

Maybe it was because the moment I stepped off the ferry, I was whisked back to a twisted version of backwoods Missouri, one speckled with Mandarin, palm trees and a faint salty smell. Suddenly, I no longer felt like a roughnecked backpacker outsider with tousled hair and legs blotchy with mosquito bites, an identity that alienated me in flashy cities like Hong Kong and Shanghai. Here, no one judged. Here, Marc Jacobs and Givenchy shop windows weren’t casting a glare on my features by nightfall, turning them ghostly. The villages shut off their lights at night, forcing me to find my way home in the shadows. For two days in Kinmen (jīnmén), I adopted the quiet life.

Before I set off to join a group of cyclists riding to Tibet in 2007, my parents were on the fence about supporting me. I pushed how safe the trip was, and that there’d be a couple of guys who could look out for me going as well. Eventually they gave their blessing, though my mom still lost a few pounds worrying about me that summer.

Still, even though that trip passed without a hitch, when I decided to bike solo to Tibet in 2009 I lied to my parents and said I was going to visit a Tibetan friend. Instead, I took a train to Geermu and started my journey there.

What I love most about biking alone is that the schedule is my own. The clear, open views along the Qinghai-Tibet route made me feel like I was the only person on earth. Sometimes I could even squat at the roadside and defecate without worrying that someone would pass by.

I ran into two vicious hailstorms on my way to Yanshiping (雁石坪), near the Tanggula Mountains (唐古拉山). The first time I luckily found shelter in a herdsman’s roadside house. Even though I was unable to talk to the old Tibetan woman who ran the home as she didn’t speak Mandarin, she still served me milk and steamed buns. When the hail stopped and I was about to leave, I could only clasp her hands, repeatedly saying “thank you” for the kindness she’d shown me.

Most people I met were super friendly and warmhearted. One day, shortly after I started from the Tuotuo River (沱沱河), I saw lightning in the near distance and heard the low rumble of breaking thunder. I was scared and stopped at a roadside construction site, where local Tibetans lived and worked. They invited me inside to wait for their boss to return and arrange lodging for me. No one spoke Mandarin, but I remember a boy of five or six who squeezed in beside me, asking in a serious voice, “Smoke?” I stayed for free that night and the next morning. Before I left, they kindly reminded me to pull my hair back so I looked like a guy, as they were concerned I might run into trouble.

There were also some unpleasant moments. I was chased by kids who attempted to rob me and threw stones at me along the Sichuan-Tibet route. But that wasn’t a big deal. They’d simply been corrupted by the tourists.

I never figured out why I decided to bike the Qinghai-Tibet route. Many complimented me on my bravery, but I know better than that. I’m not a person who gets lost in theorizing about the meaning of travel. I keep biking, lost in my thoughts, and just feel grateful for the chance to try and do something like this.

Have your own tales of adventurous escapades in the Middle Kingdom? Email mail@theworldofchinese.com (don’t forget to include pictures if you have them) and we ‘ll post them up!