Liu Xi, star of Jishou University, with Michael and Connor

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Standard Mandarin

It had always been my intention to arrange for a Chinese tutor in Jishou, and Hamish, having spent the first half of his tenure there completing his Master's Thesis, was also keen to get into some genuine study. I had carried along some of my textbooks from the classes at Liao Da in Shenyang, and so we decided to locate an appropriate Chinese Literature major who could step us through the lessons. Our motivation was poor, however, the call of lazy afternoons in the Jishou sunshine proved, for the most part, irresistible. It was weeks after my arrival in Jishou that we chanced upon a candidate.

It was one evening over dinner in the student canteen that we found ourselves sitting opposite a trio of impish boys playfully jesting with a serious looking, thick-browed young woman with black, furtive eyes. The boys were English majors, but the girl we'd not seen before - she turned out to be the very literature major we'd been hoping to meet. With the help of the boys, we proposed a language swap - we'd help her with her English study, in return for regular lessons in Mandarin. Wang Mei, as it turned out, wasn't terribly enthusiastic at working on her English, but was more than happy to assist us with improving our second language.

It was important to us that we should find someone whose speciality was Chinese, for the reason that standard Mandarin is not widely spoken outside of Beijing, and thus most Chinese people only speak Mandarin as an extension of their native dialect, which typically bears only passing resemblance to what foreigners might learn as Chinese. In the Northeast, where I'd spent most of my time in China, the local language is not far removed from what is spoken at Beijing University, but in Jishou the sounds that drop off local tongues are echoes of echoes of the standard: thus, over the centuries, has Chinese passed across the provinces in a relentless game of Chinese Whispers.

Despite the fact that Chinese people from one town might not entirely understand the talk of neighbouring villagers, Chinese people regard their language as one tongue - a theme with many variations. Chinese is held together by a shared grammar and system of writing; poles as opposite as Northern Mandarin and Southern Cantonese, and all the gradations in between, can communicate in a flash with the written word. This is not to say that the words are entirely the same with mere discrepancies in pronunciation, but that the characters conform to a broad, poetic logic, which is capable of being understood by anyone brought up in the Chinese system. There are thousands upon thousands of Chinese characters, passed down from ancient times, each with not so much a meaning as an indistinct inference which can be applied and transformed when generating new words. What's more, the characters are protected from irregular distortion by the ingenious system of applying analogous written components to characters which share similar pronunciation - meaning that vowel shifts for particular words will usually result in a general slide across the board. Words that sounded the same long ago will still sound similar with respect to each other for this reason, even if the pronunciation is markedly different from that of earlier times.

The magic of Chinese is that this extraordinary feat of melding profound literature and scientific organisation with peasant speech has been performed by no committee of academics, but by the author of culture itself: the natural evolution of language creating complex form from simpler components, just as in the evolution of species of life. The creativity of natural selection appears to work on abstract forms in the same way as it works on matter.

Wang Mei arrived in Hamish's apartment a few days later, and together we walked out to the lakeside, choosing a white marble circular table with four barrel-shaped chairs - the likes of which can be seen nationwide - to study on. Her Mandarin had only mild irregularities, and her voice was warmly alto and rich, and we passed an hour enjoying the language and the fresh air. Mandarin, with all the provincial diphthongs removed, is a remarkably musical language, cold and formal and precise. Despite best intentions, however, it was the only lesson we were to have with Wang Mei, whose timetable was far too involved to accommodate our regular meetings.
 

Literature Building

Hamish with Wang Mei (right) and friend

The most interesting development emerging from our brief friendship with Wang Mei was my attendance at one of her Chinese classes. I got up one morning early with Hamish, who had to teach his English students at the same time, and was met by Wang Mei who took me along a high path above the rear of the university and from which one could look over the whole campus. In the cool morning air, even the factories at the opposing foothills across the way seemed poised on a traditional watercolour.

The two hour lesson was interminably dull, even had I been able to entirely understand. Wholly devoted to the intricate analysis of one sentence of Chinese from a classic work, it was the first evidence I'd had of the complexity of the Chinese language, which I'd hitherto sensed rather than observed before in my dealings with Chinese people. The teacher drew diagrams to chart the relationships between characters in different parts of the sentence, which the students copied fervently - I reflected that modern students in China lack an instinct for art, choosing instead to memorise knowledge about their ancestral sophistication - their examinations prove not their acquaintance with philosophy and penetrating beauty, but their knack of memory.

One evening at an English corner, I found myself in conversation with an interesting young man who was in his third year at Jishou. Connor was one of the most fluent students on campus, a well-spoken young man with a colourful and gentle personality, he spoke with enthusiasm and direct energy. Upon hearing of mine and Hamish's intentions to study Chinese, he immediately identified a young girl standing on the opposite side of the field - 'you'll want to study with her', he said. The girl he had indicated was none other than Jishou university's most promising student, Liu Xi - although only in her first year, she was the hope of all her teachers, with an unusual understanding of literature, a wide-ranging knowledge of literary history, and impeccable Mandarin. Liu Xi and Connor had an uncommon platonic friendship, and Connor promised to introduce her to us, knowing that Liu Xi was eager to improve her English on top of her studies.

A few nights later, Liu Xi and Connor made an appearance at the flat. Connor clucked over his friend with noticeable pride, as Liu Xi enthused on various topics concerning literary theory and China's greatest authors. Both Hamish and I are ourselves both literature majors , so we felt ourselves to have much in common interest with this young lady, whose brightly unselfconscious personality betrayed a uniquely gifted student with no need to prove her abundantly evident talent. She was a girl who loved to learn; at just 19, her prospects were extensive.

And so we began a nightly ritual with the pair: Connor, who insisted on escorting the innocent Liu Xi for courtesy's sake, and Liu Xi, who would correct us as we attacked simple dialogues from the Chinese primer I'd brought with me. Liu Xi merely wanted conversation in return, and so we would often end up in discussion, Liu Xi's perfectly capable English standing in contrast to our rather poor Mandarin. The conversation would inevitably end up centring on the development of modern Chinese literature, ourselves proponents of change, Liu Xi hesitant to see development that strayed too far from the classics. Hamish in particular, who had acquired some familiarity with the works of modern master writer Lu Xun, drew on his knowledge of experimental poetry to suggest new directions, many of which appalled Liu Xi. It was a ceremony of scholars, the most intellectually satisfying discourse that either Hamish or I had enjoyed since arriving in China and having our communicative abilities cut away from us.

Connor and Liu Xi often would invite us to school events - one of which was a screening of a Chinese university movie that had won awards in Beijing, being an account of modern astronomical knowledge with superb special effects. The theatre was crowded with some students even squatting in the aisles, which rather surprised Hamish and I who had assumed that a science documentary would be unlikely to attract such a gathering. Chinese theatres are regularly rowdier than are their Western counterparts, incidences of chatting and noisy eating not at all rare. The student theatre was the same, and when the lights dimmed for the feature presentation the chit-chat seemed only to escalate.

The greatest surprise was that the students were amazed by the film, which seemed to me far simpler than space features I'd seen before. The special effects were fairly standard computer renderings of planets and other astronomical bodies, certainly the students had seen the same things before in movies - but I was taken quite aback by the students' gasps and awe as the rather cheeky narrator teased with knowledge of astrophysical events. I fancied that the students were caught up in the learning, perhaps in a way that they lacked in class, and I was so moved by their curiosity that I couldn't help letting tears.

On another evening, we decided to try out an appealing tea-house close to town, Bonnie, Hamish and I inviting Liu Xi and Connor along for some break from the university environment. The interior was thoroughly traditional, a two tiered bamboo terrace with a central well and a stage up front where the music students were playing decorate melodies on their ornate instruments. We sat at a dimly lit table in front of the musicians, two lovely girls in dark Qi Pao dresses, their jeans and sneakers visible through the leg slit in the skirt. We were heady in strongly scented tea, and were discussing culture again, and I made the mistake of comparing Japanese culture with Chinese culture, which immediately ignited vitriol from Liu Xi.

The Japanese, she claimed, were thieves of Chinese culture. I couldn't agree, as although it is true that many arts claimed by the Japanese as their own have demonstrable roots in China, the Japanese race themselves are descendants of Chinese tribes, and what you inherit from your forebears can't be counted as stolen. Liu Xi didn't agree with my opinion that the Japanese ancestral rights to ancient Chinese culture were as valid as her own.

I tried to turn the argument around - if the Japanese stole Chinese culture from their own ancestors, then modern Chinese people were guilty also, but this devil's advocacy only seemed to make me more unpopular with Liu Xi. So I broadened the example, trying to reason that as all humanity are descended from common original forebears, our cultural achievements are in a sense commonly inherited by all peoples of the world.

I was staggered by her rebuttal, for it was not with the concept of international cultural partaking that she disagreed, but with the idea that non-Asiatic peoples were in any way related to those from Asian countries. According to her understanding, Foreigners and Chinese were not even the same species.

I discovered later that this is not an uncommon view in China, as in traditional teachings, the Chinese race originated from cave peoples of Central China (the so-called 'Peking Man') and all Asian people have their roots there. Foreigners come from somewhere else. This stands in total contradiction with the accumulation of human knowledge, science, and reasoning, an ignorance that would seem stupefying to most Westerners (even supporters of the Creationist theory believe in the Brotherhood of Man) and even to some Chinese, but one held by the brightest student of Xiangxi prefecture. There, in the candlelight, Liu Xi was looking at my face, resolute in the belief that I was an entirely different creature to herself.

Connor invited me to his dorm one night for a look at the way Chinese students lived. I arrived at around 9.00pm, an hour before curfew (which is strictly enforced throughout China) and was led up the bare staircase to Connor's dormitory. Lit by a few bare lamps, the dorm was a typical array of six metal-framed bunks and desks lining each wall. There was a smell of sweat and old clothes (Chinese male students are famously bad at washing clothes, having been been spared the task by doting parents for life - boys often cart their washing over to the girl's dormitories for their female classmates to wash for them) and boys were wandering between dorms wearing only white briefs, jumping cheerfully into bed with each other to talk - they were darkly golden, bony creatures who hummed and joked excitedly, unaware of eroticism and unashamed at their contact. Connor sat at his desk, the only student with a really good haircut. He seemed to perceive that I was slightly unsettled to see grown men huddling beneath the covers and explained that the students were far too naive to consider their behaviour as anything other than friendly. The girls, too, often spent the night together in the same bed, and as Hunanese girls are, by and large, small and buxom, often three of them would sleep on the same bunk, giggling and teasing each other in their scanty summer lingerie, or lack thereof. I shifted uncomfortably in my seat.

Connor was Hunanese too, from a small lakeside town, who like Faith had dreams of success in one of China's Southern metropolises. He was delighted to be at Jishou University, and pleased at the opportunity to practice his fantastic English with the foreign teachers. He'd been good friends with the previous foreign teacher, Matthew, also - although had been snubbed after Matt had returned to England - and showed me his photographs proudly. One particular picture showed a group of students, and he asked me to pick which I thought was the most beautiful girl. I picked a bright face from the front, and he nodded approvingly - "Yes, that's her - she was my girlfriend at the time."  I looked through a series of pictures of the stunning girl, wandering in a sunhat about a sailing ferryboat, the sunlight on her face. She had called him too often one holiday, and he had discouraged their relationship after that.

I hadn't taken too much notice of the time - it was soon past ten and the gates were locked. Connor politely offered me his bed, adding that he'd be able to sleep in his friend's bunk along the corridor - but I was feeling introspective at the time and was unimpressed with being caged for the night. So Connor took me downstairs to the back wall, where the boys had chiselled footholds for scaling and climbing down the other side. Despite the security, truancy from the dorm curfew was common, and the school perimeter held a series of escape and after-hours admittance points. The university administration sometimes found and blocked these holes in the walls, but they were fighting a losing battle with student ingenuity.

A few nights later, I was discussing the negative aspects of restricting the student's freedom with Liu Xi during our lesson. Liu Xi had never done anything wrong in her life, and strongly supported the university's protection of the students, but did complain that her own experience of life was sadly lacking in richness, something a good Arts student should really have. She confessed that she had considered being bad before, but feared the repercussions. I asked what the repercussions for breaking curfew were, and was told that occasionally, if caught, student's names would be written on a board for other students to see. It didn't seem to me to be a serious threat.

Hamish had told of a nightclub in the middle of town where he'd often considered going. Jishou was hardly a repository of modern venues, and the club was really the only one in town, but it suddenly seemed fitting to encourage Liu Xi to break with tradition and accompany us there. Opposed, but excited, she consulted with Connor, who surprisingly encouraged her, again for the sake of her own experience - he would also go to look after her. The deliberation took so long that the pair were already late for a return to their dormitories, the first time Liu Xi had ever been late to bed. It was decided.

The five of us packed into a taxi minivan and took the trip to the bar - perhaps appropriately monikered 'B.A.D.' as it seemed unlikely to hold anything as outrageously exciting as the tired sign at the door promised. It turned out to be more than acceptable, a bar with (too expensive) foreign spirits and a dancefloor where the bad boys and girls of Jishou were writhing unimaginatively, about ten in all.

Hamish and I had been monstrously silly dancers at secondary school in New Zealand, and after a couple of drinks, it seemed appropriate to relive old days of glory. Liu Xi, instead of watching shyly as I'd expected, danced boisterously with flushed cheeks, smiling and wriggling, a pretty young woman, Jishou's scholastic sensation, dancing happily under the influence of her first drink.