Image courtesy of turkeymacedonia.wordpress.com

I really enjoyed reading this Evan Osnos piece in the latest New Yorker, a dispatch of his journey to Europe with a Chinese package tour. For anyone who has encountered Chinese travelers before, Osnos' account should ring true. I loved reading about the rigid insistence on eating mediocre Chinese food on the road, the obsession with shopping, and the "if it's Tuesday it must be Belgium" style of warped-speed travel. Osnos mixes his account of the trip with observations of the travelers. These are middle-class Chinese, not the Western-educated elite but rather a group of people whose demographic constitution would be akin to a group of Americans on a package tour. While touring through a mixture of European sites the affable "Guide Li" lectures his travelers on both aspects of European history and culture as well as ways in which the Europeans differ from the Chinese.

When reading the piece there's a sense that Osnos is portraying the Chinese in a typically chauvinist manner, as insular people obsessed with their own perceived notions of superiority as well as the shortcomings of others. It would be tempting to ascribe these characteristics to the Chinese as a whole. Yet Osnos' observations about the Chinese remind me jarringly of my experiences meeting other Americans in Europe. I recall an older couple, wearing gaudy cameras around their necks, wandering aimlessly in Rome in pursuit of a McDonalds. (My foodie parents were not impressed). In Amsterdam I met a college friend who had dragged along his reluctant brother and cousin. As we walked through the streets of the Dutch capital the cousin made constant references to how inferior everything was, even resorting to absurd comments like "Look at those flowers, man. In America they'd be arranged more nicely". When I asked the brother what he thought of travels through Europe, he said, "it's Ok, but it isn't America. That's why we're the hegemon,". Incidentally I knew without having to ask that he was a political science major given his use of the word "hegemon", but this is beside the point. These were by and large interesting and kind people, but their observations reflected an embedded sense of national superiority not at all uncommon in Americans.

Yet in thinking further on this subject, are these qualities unique only to the Americans and the Chinese? I've mentioned before how insularity- coming from such large countries- has inbued both populations with a more isolated worldview than those who live in close proximity to foreign countries, but in my memory I've met so-called "ugly" travelers from all over the world. Italians, for instance, tend to look down on virtually every other cuisine but their own. I needn't discuss the French, need I? I met Germans in Italy furious and aggravated by train delays and labor strikes. No nation can claim immunity from producing grumpy, condescending, culturally ignorant people who choose to spend their money on trips abroad.

About a year ago my New Zealand friend told me a funny story. A former colleague of his from their days teaching in China contacted him and said he would like to visit my friend in Japan, where he and his Japanese wife were then living. The friend, a fellow Kiwi, came and for the three days together proceeded to be obnoxious, demanding, difficult, grumpy, sour, and altogether an atrocious travel partner. Upon his departure my friend and his wife breathed a sigh of relief. Sure enough, two weeks later, they received a card in the mail from the friend telling them how wonderful a time he had had in Japan and how he hoped to travel there the following year. As the saying goes, you don't know what you've got till it's gone.

This apparently isn't good enough for Facebook. Citing a breach of its 'no pseudonym' policy, the Internet giant abruptly canceled Anti's account in January.  Gone, immediately, were the thousands of contacts he cultivated over the previous three years. (Full disclosure: I was one of Anti's "friends" even though I have not met him personally). Since then, Anti has tried to restore his account but to no avail, saying quite sincerely that he "can't function using his Chinese name".

I appreciate Facebook's policy of insisting on legal names, and think that doing so was one of the main reasons it eclipsed MySpace so easily a few years ago. But in a police state like China there is real value in shielding- even partially- one's true identity. Michael Anti didn't choose his name out of self-promotional zeal. He did it so that his controversial content could have that much more breathing room and exposure. For people in Anti's field services like Facebook are essential in the dissemination of content that would otherwise remain buried.

I realize that with 500 million users Facebook may not have enough time to police every single one of their users' pages, but surely they can separate between people like Anti and others with a less solid case for using a separate identity. For Anti, having his Facebook page canceled is more than a nuisance- it's a professional setback.

(Hat tip to Evan Osnos at the New Yorker)

Update: Our friends at Gawker have picked up the story. Good- hopefully with a little more attention Facebook will restore Anti's page.

I asked around a little about dwarves in China. One of most interesting comments came just today from a young woman in her 30s whom I would describe as a modern, youthful, savvy nationalist. She said she thinks the reaction to dwarves is part of a traditional mindset where beliefs run deep, even subliminal. It's about Buddhism, she said. Doing good in this life is rewarded. Doing bad is punished, in this lifetime or the next. Maybe, she said, seeing a dwarf makes people wonder for the briefest instant whether this diminished stature is somehow "deserved," and makes them uncomfortable because of the negative history that might be attached to such a person.

There might be an element of truth in this but on a more basic level I find Chinese people have an unusually high degree of hospitality and an unusually low degree of common compassion. Within your social network, friends in China will be generous and hospitable- almost to a fault. One friend used to bring me a small gift every time we met, even after I begged her not to. Guests in homes will always been given the most comfortable lodging and great food. Compare that to my childhood in California, when friends would sleep in a sleeping bag on the floor and there was never any indication that this was inadequate.

Yet I also found Chinese people to be callous and indifferent toward people they don't know. People kept their own homes in immaculate shape but would spit or spill on the floor in restaurants. If someone on the street appeared to be in trouble nobody would offer to help. I once suggested this to a Chinese friend and she became indignant and defensive. But many others told me that they agreed and that this was an aspect of their country they disliked and wished would change.

In addition Chinese people tend to be ruthless in pointing out people's physical flaws. When I first moved to Fuzhou, a female English teacher at my school gave me a tour of the campus. When we walked past the running track, she said that I was welcome to use the track whenever I wished, and that I ought to because then I might lose some weight. I stopped dead in my tracks, shocked. What she said was perfectly accurate and was with the best intentions, but I was so unused to having my gut be the subject of conversation I wasn't sure what to say.

Some foreigners hate this type of blunt speak in China, but after awhile I grew to appreciate it and began doing it myself. Why ignore the elephant in the room? (pun intended)

So she's a horrible bitch, right? I'll admit that this was my first thought, as well as disappointment that a writer I had admired (Chua's book World on Fire is excellent) would publish something like this. But wait- let's take a look at the cover of her new book, Battle Hymn of the Tiger Mother, and read the subtitle. What does it say?

This is the story about a mother, two daughters, and two dogs. This was supposed to be the story of how Chinese parents are better at raising kids than Western ones. But instead it's about a bitter clash of cultures, a fleeting taste of glory, and how I was humbled by a thirteen year-old

This blurb doesn't seem to jive with the WSJ article. Was this intentional? Chua says that the article was edited without her oversight:

"I was very surprised," she says. "The Journal basically strung together the most controversial sections of the book. And I had no idea they'd put that kind of a title on it. But the worst thing was, they didn't even hint that the book is about a journey, and that the person at beginning of the book is different from the person at the end -- that I get my comeuppance and retreat from this very strict Chinese parenting model."

While the Journal article was unquestionably good for sales and awareness of the book, which has already hit #7 on Amazon and is only headed upward, it has been painful for Chua. "I've gotten scary messages. Death threats. All from people who haven't yet read the book," she says. "And while it's ultimately my responsibility -- my strict Chinese mom told me 'never blame other people for your problems!' -- the one-sided nature of the excerpt has really led to some major misconceptions about what the book says, and about what I really believe

This doesn't exonerate Chua from the draconian parenting methods she initially employed, but I do think she deserves credit for grappling with such a personal issue in the public sphere. Plus, her editorial does raise some uncomfortable questions. Do 'Western' parents coddle their children too much? Do we allow our children, who may not know any better, too much autonomy in making important decisions? Should we emphasize the value of repetition and memorization more?

In high-school, at a Chinese-American friend's house, her immigrant mother asked me if I played any instruments. I replied that I played piano until age 12 but quit because I didn't like it. She looked at me with amazement and said that all 12 year olds, including her daughter, want to quit. But she didn't let her.

I remember feeling upset at this implication that my parents had somehow failed me. In truth, they tried very hard to get me to reconsider. They said that I would someday wish I hadn't quit, that someday I would see the utility in all the hard work I put in practicing. They were right, of course, and they knew that they were right. But I'm not sure that relenting was a mistake. There are lessons that cannot be dictated, that must be absorbed through personal experience. This is one of them. When I was 18, I knew that I should have kept it up, but I never blamed my parents for letting me quit. I would have never understood the consequences of my action otherwise.

This reasoning doesn't apply to everything, of course, but ultimately successful adults have to be able to make judgments based on their own reasoning and experience. I'm not arguing that children raised by "Chinese" parents can't do this, but that knowing how to bounce back is just as valuable a skill as math and violin.

Rather, the difference I've seen is that the formal wedding portrait occupies a huge space in the family home, even in families that have since had a child. I once tutored a teenage boy whose parents' wedding photo- by then at least 15 or 16 years old- was even larger than the big flat screen tv that stood opposite it in their living room.

I'd be curious to know what the wedding photo customs are elsewhere in the world. Do other countries favor the Chinese-style prominent display, or the more modest placement common in the US?

Yet something seemed odd about this, and it took me awhile to figure out what it was. Finally, I realized what it was: here in the States, putting bags and things on the floor is completely unremarkable. In China, on the other hand, people virtually never put anything on the floor, much less a book bag.

This was a cultural practice I never got used to in China. Whenever I sat at a table, I'd put my backpack or bag on the floor. Within seconds, a waitress or friend would rush over and place whatever I was carrying onto a different chair at the table. I'd often get looks, too, as if using the floor in this manner was wild and reckless behavior.

I'm sure it'd be fair to say that as a traditionally Buddhist country, the Chinese have a reverence for heads and an aversion for feet, hence their refusal to walk barefoot at practically all times. Yet a more straightforward and causal explanation would be that most floors in China are just dirty, and trying to avoid contact with them is an entirely sensible idea.

To dig deeper, why are Chinese public floors so dirty, anyway? And why do people in China leave places so dirty? One of the shocks I had when opening my apartment door for the first time here was that it was spotless. In China, vacant apartments look like bomb sites. Even bathrooms that exact a toll in China are filthy, even when an attendant is standing idly just a few feet away.

In private homes, the Chinese are as clean and fastidious as anyone. But in public? Forget about it. Before I traveled to Laos, a friend of mine in Kunming told me to pay attention to the bathrooms. All of them- even ones in the middle of the countryside- were clean. And Laos is one of the poorest countries in the world.

Before anyone accuses me of some sort of bias, let me just point out that in conversations with Chinese friends the filthiness of public spaces is something they have often lamented about their home country. My interest is purely anthropological. Is it a Cultural Revolution hold-over? Or something else?

Chen Mingjing's entrepreneurial instincts vaulted him from a peasant upbringing to undreamed-of wealth, acquired in ventures ranging from making electric meters to investing in real estate. But when he was 44, the allure of making money for money's sake began to wane. He wanted to run a business that accomplished some good.

And so last September, Mr. Chen did what any socially aware entrepreneur might do: He opened a theme park of dwarfs, charging tourists about $9 a head to watch dozens of dwarfs in pink tutus perform a slapstick version of "Swan Lake" along with other skits.

At first glance this park appears to be a modern-day version of a circus freak show. But Mr. Chen swears that he's actually offering a source of dignity to the vertically challenged by allowing them to live where they can be of normal height.

So it is an act of profitable compassion? Or perverse exploitation? Or both? I report, you decide.

At another table outside were two Han tourists from the city of Chongqing. Zheng Jing, a big-bellied man wielding a Canon camera, was a repeat visitor. He said this park was the only place in the Dai region where he would ever consider staying.

"There are many villages around, and they're all primitive," he said as a Han motorcycle club pulled up to Mr. Ai Yo's house for lunch. "It's not suitable for us to go there. They don't speak the Han language. You can't have exchanges with them."

That kind of attitude puzzles Dai residents living right outside the park.

"The culture here is the same as inside the park," said Ai Yong, 32, a rubber farmer in Mannao village. "You're getting cheated inside. You come out here, you can see everything for free."

Fortunately Ai Yong is right- Yunnan is still rich in authentic minority life, and given the narrow scope of Han travel itineraries one doesn't have to go very far outside of the tourist zones to find it. Within a 30-minute walk from the Dali and Lijiang old towns, for example, you can find living and breathing minority towns, free from Han tourists and 50-kuai cups of coffee. Though I've spent less time there, the same can be said for Jinghong I'm told.

Much of the letter consists of a denunciation of the Dalai Lama, whom the author brands as a 'terrorist', followed by the usual declaration of China as a 'peace loving country' somehow unique in the world.

As I've pointed out recently the two concepts mentioned above are interrelated. The Chinese government propagates an image of being a peaceful country so as to distinguish itself from the various foreign powers who carved China up in the 19th and 20th centuries as well as to provide an ex-post-facto justification for why its conquest of Tibet was somehow one of liberation rather than imperialism. In order to pretend that there is no legitimate opposition in Tibet, the Communist Party labels the Dalai Lama as a villain and blames all unrest in the region on his influence.

A caveat, lest you think I'm grouping all Chinese in with this particularly outraged young man. His views are reminiscent of ultra-nationalists and do not correspond to the vast majority of Chinese people. Then again, the fact that over 6,000 others have 'dinged' or supported his post indicates that quite a few people in this country feel similarly.

What surprised me most about the film was its seemingly leftist point of view. The heroes are pointy-headed scientists and a disabled soldier who strive to protect the indigenous population and their ancestral homeland. The two primary villains are a grizzled Marine and a weaselly corporate goon intent on destroying the forest and obtaining unobtainium, the amusingly fictional mineral resource on the fictional planet of Pandora.

Avatar is playing virtually everywhere in China, and here in Kunming we were told that we had to wait three days in order to get tickets for the 3D show. Feeling impatient, I watched the 2D version in the cinema and came away dazzled- this is definitely a must-see film even for those normally disinterested in special-effect laden sci-fi films.