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The Skinny on Teaching English in China

by Tom Carter

Having little luck finding an attractive job offer in the U.S. in 2004, I decided to take my skills where they were wanted — abroad.

Enticed by the “Teach English in China — No Experience Necessary” ads saturating the online classifieds, I emailed my resume with one hand and packed my bags with the other. I had no idea what to expect, but then, the great unknown can be what makes a job like teaching English in the People’s Republic so appealing.

As the world’s largest economy opens to foreign investment, education has become one of China’s thriving sectors. Confucius probably wouldn’t stand for it, but he wasn’t wearing pinstripe suits and driving a shiny black sedan. The country may be Communist in theory, but the renminbi — Chinese currency — is emperor.

A Chinese adage says that the best advice is often born from the most challenging experiences. After three years helping the sons and daughters of Han learn English, I’ve had my share. Westerners looking to teach in China may want to consider the following before packing their bags.

Some foreign English teachers may be shanghaied at least once during their time in China. Baiting unsuspecting Westerners to China with false promises of a high salary, deluxe apartment, airfare reimbursement, visa or other incentives is a common online scam. Blame it on temptation. Often Chinese laws are too fluid and relationships (”guanxi” in Mandarin) with authorities too intimate, leaving some foreigners with little protection against scams.

The moment I arrived in the Middle Kingdom I had what some seasoned expatriates call “the complete Chinese experience.” The “school” that had accepted my application turned out to be a nickel-and-dime operation run out of an apartment by a guy in his bathrobe. I’d come half way around the world for a job and found myself out of work.

I was literally lost in translation. Despair and a desire to return home to Mom set in. But I quickly learned that, commensurate with its sizeable population, China has a profusion of kindergarten, primary, middle and high schools and universities in even the most remote cities. In short order, I wound up with a position and salary more attractive than the one I had originally accepted.

Chinese parents may work night and day to pay for pricey English lessons so that their child can get a head start in this competitive society of 1.3 billion. Unfortunately, academics are not an issue to many of China’s new educational entrepreneurs who put profit before curriculum and quality. Classroom experience and Teaching English as a Foreign Language (TEFL) certification is nice, but in many cases a Western face is all a native English speaker needs to land a teaching job in China.

In more reputable schools, most prospective English teachers don’t have it so easy. I endured a weeklong interview process, including a series of teaching demonstrations before 300 stern-looking parents, all while I was still jetlagged and suffering from culture shock. I must have done something right, because I was chosen to teach at a top school in the province.

Being rice-wined and dined by my prospective employer over 30-course banquet dinners did not distract me from negotiating a fair salary. Many foreigners (”laowai”) prefer to live in a cosmopolitan city like Beijing or Shanghai than a small town such as the one I had chosen, and I was able to use this preference as leverage during contract discussions. All deals in China, like the price of fruit at the marketplace, can be negotiated.

Most English teachers in China needn’t speak Mandarin in the classroom. Instead, we instruct students through a process of language immersion and simulation, which in time invariably leads to proficiency. Diligence and a little creativity are all that are really needed, but like performing on stage five times a day, it takes its toll.

Over the next few years, I would meet a number of disappointed young Westerners who came overseas as English teachers expecting to party all night and spend their free time pursuing adventures in the countryside. That, I would tell them, is a lifestyle for tourists, exchange students and embassy brats, not the hardworking teacher.

As a foreign expert English instructor, I’m scheduled for up to 30 classes a week and spend most of my free time planning lessons. I’m up at dawn with the older folks practicing their Tai Chi and not back home until after 10 p.m., about when the migrant construction workers also are getting off work.

I never thought I’d be an educator. I didn’t like most of my teachers when I was a kid. Teachers the world over are typically low paid, overworked and underappreciated. But the fatigue and the hit on my income — compared to what I might earn in the U.S. — are what I pay for being part of a rapidly-changing China. As it turned out, I’m not so bad in front of the chalkboard — I actually like it.

Learning Kung Fu at Shaolin Temple

by Tom Carter

“Let’s see your Tiger-Crane style match my Eagle’s Claw!”

Ah, the immortal words of dueling Shaolin warriors. Though dialog like this is mainly the stuff of low-budget Hong Kong movies, there is in fact a place where such challenges are still uttered. Not to the death, of course, but between students at Shaolin Si, China’s most famous Kung Fu temple.

Located atop the western peak of the sacred Song Shan Mountain in northern Henan province, 800 year-old Shaolin Si has been destroyed and rebuilt time and again, weathering attacks by emperors, warlords, cultural revolutions, and now its most reoccurring invaders – the modern tour group.

In fact, not until the advent of the 1970s Kung Fu movie craze and the popular 1982 film “Shaolin Temple,” did annual tourism perform a CGI-like leap from 200,000 to 2 million, prompting the Chinese government to list the temple as a protected heritage site.

But while the venerable temple gates see an almost endless stream of tourists wishing to get a glimpse of a real-life Shaolin monk and take in a demonstration performance, a more permanent residence of Kung Fu enthusiasts exists in the outlying hillsides.

These are the sons and daughters of Shaolin, young students who have given up secular life for a strict regimen and forsaken conventional curriculum for physical conditioning. At Shaolin Si, the sword is truly mightier than the pen.

Crouching Tigers

Kung Fu (Gungfu in Mandarin) was originally a Chan Buddhist practice with the dual purpose of purifying the soul and building strength through Zen spiritual doctrine and martial arts.

Shaolin priests complimented their monastic ways by harnessing their life force with meditation and releasing this energy, or Qi, through practical offense and defense maneuvers, something traditionalists complain has been diluted over the centuries for the thrill of competition and the vanity of exhibition.

Opening up the temple to outsiders began in the mid-16th century, whence military officers of the Ming Dynasty court attended Shaolin to study the monks’ unique fighting techniques. Resultingly, today’s Kung Fu schools have become big business.

The oldest and perhaps most visible school, the Wushu Institute at Tagou, is at the front entrance of Shaolin Si itself. One mountain may have no space for two tigers, says the old Chinese proverb, but the privately-run Tagou boasts over ten thousand! The courtyard is at any given moment a killer-bee swarm of students of all ages deftly demonstrating the fluid movement of forms, gravity-defying aerial assaults, an arsenal of weapons techniques and the brute force of striking and grappling.

As it does not seem likely that the People’s Republic will have future need to employ martial monks to defend the country from Wokou raiders as it did in the old days, Kung Fu students of the new millennium will eventually end up common businessmen (with a hell of a roundhouse), some will become police officers, and the bottom percentile relegated to rent-a-cop.

But in all their fearless eyes is that youthfully high hope; the desire to become the next Jet Li, China’s “national treasure” who attended a Kung Fu training school from age 8 and went on to become a five-time Wushu champion and silver screen sensation.

But is real life at a Kung Fu school as glamorous as its on-screen personification?

Wudang Clan

A few kilometers away from Shaolin Si against the placid waters of Song Shan reservoir, the 11 year-old Shuiku Martial Arts School, with only 200 students, may be dwarfed in both size and reputation by its estimable red-suited rival, but the daily drill is virtually the same.

Whilst the rest of the working world operates on a 9-5 schedule, life at Shaolin Shuiku is literally backwards, from 5am to 9pm. In the blue light of dawn, barking instructors rouse their respective teams for a run in the brisk morning mountain air as Chinese patriot songs echo into the surrounding mountain range.

Stretching, sprinting, fist pushups and other exertive exercises to forge their young bodies into steel take place beneath the rising sun, the packed-earth schoolyard a veritable army of green-uniformed students lined up in formation. A quick cafeteria breakfast is followed by two hours of requisite textbook classes including Chinese, Math and perfunctory English.

Before lunch and then into the evening is the fun stuff – basics, forms, applications and weapons – components of the external (Shaolin) and Wudang, or internal, styles of Kung Fu training. Most can be rudimentarily learned in a matter of years, but take a lifetime to perfect.

Forms, which are actual fighting techniques with the appearance of a choreographed dance, are the most elegant. The animal styles, for example, involve strength, speed and psychology; the Tiger for external force and a strong attack, the softer Crane style for patience and concentration, and so on down the animal kingdom.

For the less graceful student, competitive Sanda sparring more resembles street fighting than poise, whereby the biggest and bravest don protective gear and launch into each other with fists of fury under the corrective eye of their shifu.

Led not by a wizened Master Po, a cruel Pei Mei or any such mythical elder with long white eyebrows, today’s Shaolin shifu (master) are young, burly and surly, some fresh out of Kung Fu school and quick to take a bamboo cane to the backsides of their junior trainees.

Young Grashoppa

In the dark chill of night, the spent students finally retire to their dorm rooms for a semi-normal albeit brief adolescent life – reading comics, watching movies, or, most precious, sleep. The boys share up to ten bunks per room, which look, and smell, accordingly.

Conversely, there are only 7 girls at Shuiku, though none admit feeling uncomfortable around the pubescent testosterone of so many “brothers.” With narrow eyes and long, silky black hair, Feng Jing Jing of Shanxi has been a Shaolin student for one year and plans at least another four.

Despite her quiet demeanor, the 17 year-old novice shares a tempered conceit with the rest of her male and female classmates, disdaining an ordinary teenage life of classrooms and tests. “Kung Fu is much easier than English,” Feng Jing Jing asserts while slashing a broadsword in the air with lethal precision.

And what of the parents who are paying for these classes? For them, Kung Fu is an alternative investment into their child’s future. And the earlier they begin, the larger the payoff – they hope.

Cao Xu, 7, who likes doing cartwheels instead of walking, doesn’t seem to mind being away from his mother and father back in Shanghai. Nevertheless, their adult ambitions have obviously been instilled in this little grasshopper’s mind: “I want to be a hero…and earn lots of money!”

White Lotus

Demonstrated by its box-office strength in the western world, the Shaolin lifestyle isn’t only popular with Chinese. 20 year-old Felix Klemisch studied martial arts in his native Germany for four years before hopping on a China-bound plane to pursue his affinity for Kung Fu.

And towering over every other student and trainer at Shuiku is the 190cm Stephan Beck, the school’s foreign veteran with a combined 9 months between two Shaolin schools (he quit the first school after making him stare into the sun for ten minutes a day “to build up [his] Qi”). Also 20 and from Germany, Stephan defies height, gravity and conventions, often training alone while the Chinese students are in group formation.

The two young Europeans confide that communication is a bigger obstacle than the physical ones, and were practically forced to learn rudimentary Chinese to understand their trainers. “We had no choice,” says blonde Felix in heavily accented English. “It was either grasp basic Mandarin or get left behind.”

Neither is sure of what they want to do when they go home and admit the possibility of drifting their way back to Shaolin. In the meantime, shaved-headed Stephan is looking forward to getting away from Song Shan for an upcoming respite in Beijing.

So which will he do first, a climb on the Great Wall? Shopping at Silk Market? “Find a Chinese girlfriend,” he decrees with Shaolin bombast. “I’ve been on top of this mountain too long!”

In the summer it is a scalding expanse of desert, in the spring verdant grassland; but in the winter, Inner Mongolia is a white kingdom few travelers, beyong the occasional Mongol nomad, brave to enter.

Indeed, the traditionally nomadic lifestyle of the native Mongolian reflects the region’s unforgiving climate. To quote the usually intrepid Lonely Planet guidebook chapter on Inner Mongolia, “…from December to March – forget it!”

Occupying 12% of China’s landmass in a majestic arching slope of over one million kilometers, Inner Mongolia borders 8 other Chinese provinces in addition to the colossal countries of Mongolia and Russia to the north.

Today, Mongolians make up only 17% of the provincial population. And while leather-skinned warriors on armored horseback may no longer pose a threat to the Chinese, the mainland is now seeing a second Mongolian invasion, this time in the form of sand.

The vast Gobi Desert, which already consumes Inner Mongolia’s northwestern border, is dramatically expanding at a rate of 10,000 square kilometers per year and is calculated to turn 40% of the People’s Republic into a veritable wasteland, evinced by the apocalyptic sandstorms from the north that assault Beijing during the summer months

But vacationers to Inner Mongolia (Nei Menggu in Putonghua) need not concern themselves with such things as environmental catastrophes, for in winter the gold sands of the Gobi slowly give way to white as frost slowly veils first the north and then the entire province.

Arriving in the Inner Mongolian capital of Hohhot (pronounced Ho huh ha ta), one finds that it truly is a “Blue City,” as its Mongolian name implies, but with a comparatively modern ambiance nonetheless.

The urban skyline falls behind the horizon as our journey via steam train progresses across the frozen plateau to the more rustic northeast. Following electrical lines from village to village, the train’s ice-trimmed windows reveal an otherwise barren countryside dotted with red brick homes stacked with chimneys continuously exhaling their coal smoke.

This is the pastoral life of Mongolian miners, farmers and shepherds hibernating for the winter, nary a sole outside save the occasional caravan of camels led through the snowy waste by men as furry and indistinguishable as their charge.

The flatlands give way to hills of white birch and sinuous rivers of blue ice. Veering north, the train then burrows into the Greater Khingan mountain range, which forms a natural provincial border separating Inner Mongolia from the plains of Manchuria to the east.

Passing frozen Hulan Hu, China’s fifth largest lake, and the Hulunbuir grasslands (now blanketed in snow), it comes as a pleasant shock to discover that the busiest land port of entry in the mainland is located here in the far reaches of Inner Mongolia. The Manzhouli crossroads, situated directly on the borders of China, Mongolia and Russia and the Trans-Siberian Railway, is a fascinating fusion of northeastern cultures.

Shops, hotels and restaurants are of distinct Russian personality and advertise in both Chinese and Russian script while the streets teem with rugged import-exporters and big blonde Russian tourists extravagantly attired in plush fur coats, pelt scarves and omnipresent ushanka hats.

But the final and most remote destination comes during the return trip south through tundra as vast as the sky above, the snowscape spotted with resilient brush, wind-swept fences and adobe villages of ice-glazed rooftops until…Xanadu, Kublai Khan’s summer palace.

While the name Xanadu invokes an air of mystery to those who have never been, there is in fact no “snow-white mares with sacred milk, rich and beautiful meadows” as observed by Marco Polo, nor Samuel Taylor Coleridge’s oft-cited “stately pleasure dome.”

Xanadu, otherwise known as Yuanshangdu, today is less an eternal world than a set of dilapidated stone walls and towers buried in centuries of dirt and weeds, leaving the fantasies of a romantic Mongolian city to be written by the opium-addled. China’s tourism bureau has all but deserted the ancient area for (literally) greener pastures, and, according to locals, it is a rare day when even one visitor can be found walking the venerable grounds during the winter months.

But the sheer desolation of Xanadu is exactly its attraction. Walking among 11th-century ruins mantled in dazzling whiteness, one is left completely alone to enjoy an untouched history and uncorrupted serenity that is otherwise not found in today’s China.

In the immortal words of disco queen Olivia Newton John, “Now we are in Xanadu!”

Tom Carter, a freelance writer and photographer from San Francisco, has lived in P.R.China the past two and a half years. He is currently backpacking through all 32 Chinese provinces.

Getting there

Daily flights from Hong Kong to Hohhot (connecting in Beijing), via Air China, Cathay Pacific and Dragon Air, 6 hours, 7000 HKD, round trip.

Daily trains from Hong Kong to Beijing, 24 hours, 800 HKD. From Beijing to Hohhot, 12 hours, 300 HKD

To reach the bordertown of Manzhouli, daily trains from Hohhot to Hailaer, approx 40 hours, 270 HKD for a sleeper. From Halaer to Manzhouli, via shuttle bus or express train, 3 hours.

There are no official tours or direct routes to Xanadu. From Hohhot or Hailaer, get off at Sangandali, and then take a shuttle bus to Zhenglanqi (simply called Lanqi by the locals). From Lanqi, a private taxi can be retained for approx. 100 HKD for a round trip to Yuanshangdu, 30 minutes away.

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It is interesting to note that while the island of Hainan in southwest China is the country’s number two holiday ravel destination (in between Jiuzhaigou National Park in Sichuan and Yunnan’s Lijiang), most foreign tourists and expats living in the People’s Republic have never even heard of Hainan Dao, let alone been there I used to be one of the guilty parties. Despite residing in China for an extended period of time, it was not until I began my epic travels across the country that I was introduced to what is in fact its smallest yet most exotic province.

Hainan’s most popular season is, of course, Spring Festival, when legions of mainlanders shuddering from sub-zero winter temperatures spend Chinese New Year on the invitingly temperate beaches of the tropical island.

Conversely, sweltering summers turn Hainan into a veritable Hades (reclusive sun worshipers take note: you will literally have the beach to yourselves). It is not surprising, then, that Hang Dynasty exiles were once banished to ‘The Edge of the Earth’ as fatal punishment. Hainan island has made significant progress over the centuries, from remote settlement to popular tourist attraction by way of repeatedly falling in and out of control of neighboring provinces until at last being granted provincial status in 1988 (disputably along with some 200 surrounding South China Sea islands) and declared a Special Economic Zone to spur investment.

Resultingly, the colonial capital city of Haikou on the north end of the island has become its commercial center, brimming with transportation hubs, department stores and enough hotels to accommodate all of China (which it literally does during the holidays).

Those wishing to remove themselves from the urban commotion will find rustic serenity on the central coastline around Xiangshui Bay, the only traffic being farmers in coned hats and grazing cattle. There, crystal waters lap at the shores of a brilliant expanse of sugary sand, where one may sip on coconuts, feast on fresh seafood and lay undisturbed beneath the whispering palm trees.

For a more cultural experience, the lush Limuling mountain range in interior Hainan is home to the island’s reclusive indigenous peoples, most notably the Miao and the majority Li minority, a colorful ethnicity whose proud elders contine to embrace their traditional customs, native dress and intricate body and facial tattooing.

But it is Sanya, ‘the Hawaii of the Orient’that is the island’s headlining attraction. Developed along Hainan’s southerniphery, the bustling port city is framed by attractive beaches, a lively city center teaming with tourists gaudily attired in matching florescent beach wear, and a harbor congested with fishing vessels, the docks a blur of tangled netting, malodorous hauls of fish and salty dogs preparing for their next seafaring voyage.

Beyond the Sanya peninsula, Yalong Bay is a remarkable 7km stretch of white beach edged by a citadel of luxury hotels glowing in varying shades of pastel, their well-tended guests lounging poolside to the soothing sounds of Kenny G (on repeat), cocktail in hand.

No matter what your tastes - ridiculously overpriced or beach bum 1.5 billion people agree, Hainan Dao is the tropical escape everyone shohuld treat themselves to at least once during their stay in China.

Tom Carter, a freelance writer and photographer from San Francisco, has lived in PR China the past two and a half years. He is currently backpacking through all 32 Chinese provinces.

Transportation

Flights from Beijing to Haikou Airport, four times daily (four hours, 1,800 yuan)

Accommodation

The Treasure Island Hotel chain in Haikou, Xinglong and Sanya are popular with budget travelers desiring resort-style comfort at economy prices (Prices for a double range from 200 yuan in the off-season, up to 1,000 yuan during Spring Festival)

www.treasureisland-hotel.com

Regional cuisine

Seafood on Hainan is plentiful, so prices are some of China’s cheapest. roves of street vendors come out at dusk to grill a bounty of fresh fare, including various species of fish, clam, lobster, crab, squid and kelp. For desert, locals enjoy gnawing on sugarcane stalks or any of the abundant fruit. And, of course, coconut milk is an islander’s beverage of choice, chopped and chilled for only one yuan.

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It is interesting to note that while the island of Hainan in southwest China is the country’s number two holiday ravel destination (in between Jiuzhaigou National Park in Sichuan and Yunnan’s Lijiang), most foreign tourists and expats living in the People’s Republic have never even heard of Hainan Dao, let alone been there I used to be one of the guilty parties. Despite residing in China for an extended period of time, it was not until I began my epic travels across the country that I was introduced to what is in fact its smallest yet most exotic province.

Hainan’s most popular season is, of course, Spring Festival, when legions of mainlanders shuddering from sub-zero winter temperatures spend Chinese New Year on the invitingly temperate beaches of the tropical island.

Conversely, sweltering summers turn Hainan into a veritable Hades (reclusive sun worshipers take note: you will literally have the beach to yourselves). It is not surprising, then, that Hang Dynasty exiles were once banished to ‘The Edge of the Earth’ as fatal punishment. Hainan island has made significant progress over the centuries, from remote settlement to popular tourist attraction by way of repeatedly falling in and out of control of neighboring provinces until at last being granted provincial status in 1988 (disputably along with some 200 surrounding South China Sea islands) and declared a Special Economic Zone to spur investment.

Resultingly, the colonial capital city of Haikou on the north end of the island has become its commercial center, brimming with transportation hubs, department stores and enough hotels to accommodate all of China (which it literally does during the holidays).

Those wishing to remove themselves from the urban commotion will find rustic serenity on the central coastline around Xiangshui Bay, the only traffic being farmers in coned hats and grazing cattle. There, crystal waters lap at the shores of a brilliant expanse of sugary sand, where one may sip on coconuts, feast on fresh seafood and lay undisturbed beneath the whispering palm trees.

For a more cultural experience, the lush Limuling mountain range in interior Hainan is home to the island’s reclusive indigenous peoples, most notably the Miao and the majority Li minority, a colorful ethnicity whose proud elders contine to embrace their traditional customs, native dress and intricate body and facial tattooing.

But it is Sanya, ‘the Hawaii of the Orient’that is the island’s headlining attraction. Developed along Hainan’s southerniphery, the bustling port city is framed by attractive beaches, a lively city center teaming with tourists gaudily attired in matching florescent beach wear, and a harbor congested with fishing vessels, the docks a blur of tangled netting, malodorous hauls of fish and salty dogs preparing for their next seafaring voyage.

Beyond the Sanya peninsula, Yalong Bay is a remarkable 7km stretch of white beach edged by a citadel of luxury hotels glowing in varying shades of pastel, their well-tended guests lounging poolside to the soothing sounds of Kenny G (on repeat), cocktail in hand.

No matter what your tastes - ridiculously overpriced or beach bum 1.5 billion people agree, Hainan Dao is the tropical escape everyone shohuld treat themselves to at least once during their stay in China.

Tom Carter, a freelance writer and photographer from San Francisco, has lived in PR China the past two and a half years. He is currently backpacking through all 32 Chinese provinces.

Transportation

Flights from Beijing to Haikou Airport, four times daily (four hours, 1,800 yuan)

Accommodation

The Treasure Island Hotel chain in Haikou, Xinglong and Sanya are popular with budget travelers desiring resort-style comfort at economy prices (Prices for a double range from 200 yuan in the off-season, up to 1,000 yuan during Spring Festival)

www.treasureisland-hotel.com

Regional cuisine

Seafood on Hainan is plentiful, so prices are some of China’s cheapest. roves of street vendors come out at dusk to grill a bounty of fresh fare, including various species of fish, clam, lobster, crab, squid and kelp. For desert, locals enjoy gnawing on sugarcane stalks or any of the abundant fruit. And, of course, coconut milk is an islander’s beverage of choice, chopped and chilled for only one yuan.

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