China is the perfect hiding ground for these nutjobs. Where as in their home country they’d stick out like the emotionally scared, socially inept persons that they are; in China they blend. Chinese people, Mao love ‘em, often can’t tell a regular Westerner from a fucking weird one. The cultural differences generally set us all into the fucking weird category – and it’s a hazy gradient between the “I’ve got unique views” and the “I’ve got unique views of Bee Arthur’s underpants”.

As residents in this country, and card carrying members of the expat community, it’s impossible not to run into these folks – but sadly when we do, we’re not blessed with the Chinese ignorance of Western weirdities.

For anyone still unsure of the type of people I’m speaking about, immediately visit Sinocidal and read the latest Chou Chou masterpiece – “The Srangest Expat Ever” – and you’ll quickly get a sense of all that I’m going on about.

“… My father always told me that I can learn a lot by listening to people older than myself. Jonathan was forty; so he must have had some interesting views on life.

He certainly did.

It’s quite rare in polite 21st Century society to have the word “Paki-lover” thrown at you as an insult when first meeting somebody. However, Jon belonged to a different time. A time when any God-fearing, blackshirt-wearing, goose-stepping, and other Fascist-hyphening white man could walk into his local newsagents and not have to be confronted with a non Aryan face. A decent time: when men were men, and women hid in the kitchen scared with a black eye. Especially if they were Asian. At first I put these racial outbursts down as one man’s eccentric quirks; like how one would excuse an elderly relative for throwing a cane at the TV because the newsreader is black.”

But the clincher of the post really comes from a comment by Mark B. (of China Grunge), when he shares this rather awesome Thorn Tree thread.

The thread goes from this:

Searching Far And Wide For Cycling Companion.
Be everything as it may, this transcontinental, international cyclotouriste is navigating to locate a good companion for an extended bicycling tour. Good is defined as—female, healthy, cyclist, with a sense of bold adventure, and the willingness to be compatable on an extended world tour with yours truly.

Starting time is—not any time soon.

Route is—to be decided by those on tour—you and me.

Length of time is—to be decided.

I be fifty-three, healthy, six feet, 180 pounds, good looking but nothing to get all up in the air about, blond receding hair, green eyes, university grad., writer, teacher. Can work in exotic locations and have done so, easy to get along with, adventurous, survivor, world traveler. Have bicycled thirty thousand miles through nineteen countries—USA, Canada, Mexico, western Europe, eastern Europe, former Soviet Union, China, south Korea.

To this (in about 10 posts):

Fuck you you goddamn son of a whore. Just delete my membership. Oh and let me tell you something you goddamn cowards—You fucking well better KEEP hiding behind distance and anonymity you chickenshit poltroons. You people are blithering, no-good, chickenshit cowards. Not one of you yellow bellies would dare approach me in person and interfere with me in this way. I goddamn dare you to come to me face to face this way. I fucking well dare you.

FUCK YOU

It has to be seen to be believed. And if that’s not enough, be sure to check out the guy’s “Discovery 9-1-1“

Sure, I still get pissed off at the “HELLOOOOOs” and the whispered “shhysehsshsheshlaowaishehshsheksdlkjed”, but the truth is, I’ve settled in.

The moment I realized this was when I noticed I never bring my camera anywhere anymore. It used to be that I’d bring my camera along to the most mundane things in case there was a photo op that would help capture what it is to live in this randomest of all random places.

I don’t notice it anymore.

Last week I was out at the local Irish pub for the 100RMB all-you-can-drink hangover-giver the other night and it was jammed with a bunch of American and Mexican students that had just completed a Chinese course at Suzhou University. They were out for one last big hurrah before they all dispersed back to their lives back home.

People were pished, flashes were blinding, girls were dancing on the stage and singing convincingly into a microphone that was missing its connective bits. It was a blast – for them.

It wasn’t so long ago that I was doing my own rounds of “good bye”, “I can’t believe you’re staying”, “we’ve got to keep in touch”, “best of luck down in Thailand on your way back”, etc… but somewhere around the fourth or fifth round of them it lost its flavor. However, strangely enough, I really miss it.

I certainly don’t miss saying goodbye to people, that’s the worst part of being a long-term laowai. Imagine having relationships with people like you did when you were in college, but instead of a year-by-year basis, it works in terms of 6, 8 and 12 month contracts. It sucks. And though you promise (as you did in college) to keep in touch with everyone … eventually that moment that was real begins to fade, and no amount of “hey man, long time no talk” e-mails can bring that back.

Well, I don’t miss that, and I guess it’s no coincidence that my social circle has adjusted to reflect that, with many of my friends now being fellow long-timers.

However, I miss the excitement of it all. I miss going to a meal and wondering what the hell I’d just ordered, and if I can brag about eating it to my friends back home. I miss living for the school breaks so I can jump around to various tourist spots (now I’m reluctant to even travel to the corner store).

I miss telling people when I am leaving and what I plan to do next.

The college analogy runs true with this as well I guess. There’s just such a similarity (perhaps largely due to the age of the players involved) to those free-wheelin’ years of higher academia. Well, I’ve been here two and a half years now, I’ve graduated. I’ve moved into the real world of having to figure things out and work China into my life, rather than my life into China.

With school ending in the next couple weeks, I’m reaching the end of another chapter of the China experience. Friends/co-workers are leaving, and personally many things are changing.

So it was, last night I found myself with a real-estate agent viewing an apartment she was looking to populate. It was then that it dawned on me that I wasn’t actually looking at apartments because I wanted to move, but more just because every time change had previously occurred in my life in China, it meant a new apartment.

I’ve got a nice little apartment though, and don’t really need nor want to move. I’ve only lived here five months, the price is good, the size is good, the location is good… but still there I was, chatting about neighbourhood-quality, closest vegetable markets, etc. with some lady.

So, needless to say, my mind is a mess with which direction it’s meant to go. However, through all of this – the reminiscing, the confusion, the challenges ahead – there’s still an underlying feeling I’m on the right path. I had that feeling when I first decided to quit the ‘good job’ back home and start travelling, I had that feeling when I left for China, I had that feeling when I scraped my plans to leave China, and I had that feeling when I asked my wife to marry me…

I may not have it all sorted out, but I have to assume I’m doing something right.