connie's space

            Near the close of our first day of mourning, panic has set in as TV news reports tell us of a threat of several tremors, perhaps larger than the first.  We are urged to do what we feel is safe.  Since my neighbors are concerned, and I am as well, I have packed up overnight belongings and will be camping out with others on the Sichuan University campus.  Little Ghost will be coming along in her small carrier as will Little Flower on her leash.

            Hopefully, these reports will not materialize into truth.  Those to the north of us have suffered enough. 

            I hope to have good news in the morning of fears allayed and all well.

            Until next time, “Ping An!” (Peace)

            P.S.  One does wonder, is there any end in sight?!

          Sunday morning after 1 a.m. had me emailing when another 45-second aftershock of 5.7 shook the building.  As it grew in intensity, sounds of doors opening and people talking filled my stairwell.  Our courtyard once again crowded with people, those in their tents quite smug in not having to race outside from their homes so early in the morning.

            I considered waiting at the computer, but I found myself joining the group in the courtyard.   I stood barefoot on the pavement, cradling Little Ghost while Little Flower pranced quite happily at my feet. 

            I would not have been worried had there not been a burning, foul-smelling smoke that filled the air from somewhere.  A stormy wind lashed out, striking our faces with bits of dirt.  The rumbling and crashing thunder that came immediately after the dash outside made me wonder if those were buildings collapsing.  And  ambulance sirens that immediately followed gave me an uneasy feeling. 

            I watched two private car owners quickly jump into their vehicles and ease them carefully outside our narrow gate, onto the sidestreet.  I guess damage to your car is more important than damage to yourself

            Most of my neighbors laughed off this wee hour awakening and immediately put up their umbrellas, which they had wisely carried with them, as the rain began pelting down.  Only a few of us stood with frightened expressions, thinking the worst had happened.

            I am usually one of bravado, not frightened too easily and pooh-poohing those who are, but last night was not at all to my liking.

            It seems this earthquake disaster, in a relatively untouched Chengdu, has sunk in deeper than I expected.

            Meanwhile, the weekend in the city has brought full-scale operations of  encouraging public relief efforts.

            Chengdu is now filled with majestic red banners of solidarity and support for the earthquake survivors.  Now when the dog and I go for our campus stroll, we find ourselves passing under “A Strong-willed Many Become a City;  Fight the earthquake, Save (those in the) Disaster!”.  These Chinese characters grandly ripple over the entrance to the West Gate of Sichuan University and are seen throughout the capital.  At banks, they are displayed across computerized announcement boards.  Stores and chain businesses, such as Kodak photo shops, line their windows in professional, laminated posters with the same earthquake slogan. In front of the Trust-mart grocery store entrance, a countdown board to the Olympic Games announces “82 Days” while parallel to it another urges people to band together and  remember the earthquake survivors.

              Both Saturday and Sunday, groups, individuals and companies were out in full force collecting money or requesting supplies.

            A stroll through the university campus had me accosted by clusters of student volunteers (university, middle school and high school) selling special edition newspapers with donations given to help survivors.  Headlines such as “Wenchuan:  We have arrived!” from the Daily Government Morning News and full coverage of President Hu Jintao’s visit in the Chengdu Business Newspaper were just some of the offerings  students were pressing people to buy.   

            Walking down our side alleyway, I was greeted by a large pile of neatly bagged clothes brought from the surrounding area by residents.  They were stacked carefully one on top of the other and neatly packed in plastic or paper shopping bags,  folded into  handled-and-zippered carrying totes or merely bound tightly together with string.  I was about ready to go sifting through my clothes again for more donations when I read the cardboard box sign someone had positioned on top of the pile: “Don’t want clothes. Need food products, water, medicines, kitchen supplies.  Thanks, Everybody!”

            The weekend also moved our apartment office into action.  An official typewritten announcement asked us for donations. Blankets, clothes, food stuffs, tents, rain gear, and water would be collected at the gate and sent off at 8 p.m. Saturday evening.   

            But along with this call to unite has come an interesting development. 

            In China, a majority of us drink bottled water since water from the tap is still unsanitary. Those who do not have access to bottled water, or wish to save on drinking water costs, will boil the tap water, even though rust and chemical contamination might still be present.

            With the push for water to be sent to the hard-hit areas, I assumed that people would be buying the sanitary bottled version just for that reason.  

            I entered the Trust-mart grocery on Saturday and was astonished as a huge center-aisle stacked with  bottled water cases began disappearing.  I saw three individuals pushing  heavy cartloads of water toward the check-out lines.  A couple was struggling to lift two boxes of water,  24 bottles each, into their carts.  A few people were piling individual bottles into their hand baskets.

            I thought to myself, “These Chengdu people are really rising to the occasion!  How great that they are helping in this way.”

            I wanted to praise them so I approached one couple with their 48- count water supply

            “Are you sending these to the earthquake survivors?” I asked eagerly.

            The woman looked at me rather strangely for a second and then replied, “No.  We drink ourselves.”

            Disappointed, I went on to another individual.

            “Are you sending these to the earthquake survivors?” I asked yet again.

            A similar odd expression crossed her face and she answered “no.”

            Eavesdroppers standing nearby eyed me curiously as I asked 2 more people about their water purchases:  nothing for the relief efforts, just water for themselves.

            Finally, in desperation, I approached someone with two overflowing loads of H2O.  Surely this person, I thought, was buying for the disaster areas.

             I helped her push her second weighted cart further into the check-out line before asking, “Are you sending this water to the earthquake survivors?”

            She hesitated long enough for me to guess her answer.

            “No,” she said.  “This is for my business company, for guests and staff.”

            While I’m sure someone must be buying for the relief efforts, I personally didn’t find anyone during my hour of questioning at the Trust-mart yesterday. 

            Sunday evening brings the weekend to a close.  The government has just announced there will be a 3-day period of mourning for earthquake victims, although at this time I’m not sure what that entails.  I do know we are to have a 3-minute period of silence at 2:28 p.m. when the quake struck.  All Chengdu students (K-12) have been out of school since last Monday until their buildings could be properly inspected.  Whether they will return to classes tomorrow or not is unclear, and the same goes for my course as well.

            Our tent communities still remain outside, including the thousands at the university who are still wary after our 5.7 trembler this morning.  Hard to believe that a week ago today, we were all gearing up for yet another average Monday after a restful weekend.  

            How little did we in Sichuan know what that “average” Monday would bring.

            From Chengdu, I send you all a “Ping An!”  (peace)

             In my May 13th blog, I told the story of my former college student, Jason (Ji Ke), and his family who live near the hard-struck city of Dujiangyan.  We toured the famous irrigation tourist park there last May.  I visited his small village.  I enjoyed the company of his family. Then came worries for everyone’s safety due to the destruction of that city, only 40 minutes away.

             I hadn’t yet heard from him since the earthquake and was very worried.

            Finally, his long-awaited phone call came.

            “Hello, Connie.  This is Jason,” he said, sounding very tired and a little hoarse. 

“I just want to know how you are because of the terrible earthquake.”

            Leave it to Jason to ask about me first.

            But I was all ears to hear about his situation.  Is his family all right?  What about his village?  Did the house have any damage?

            Jason assured me everything was fine.  Because he is attending courses at Qing Hai University (in Qing Hai province), he had to wait anxiously to get ahold of his family here in Sichuan.  His father answered the phone:  No buildings in his village came falling down.  No injuries reported.  Only a back courtyard wall, which wasn’t very important, crumbled.  Everyone was fine.

            But there is a more pressing matter than the earthquake which involves Jason’s family.  Three years ago, his sister (now 25) was diagnosed with a heart defect.  According to Jason, it is a hole which needs to be closed. The cost of the operation would be 20,000 yuan ($2,855).  This is an astronomical amount for countryside farmers who rarely see 400 yuan ($60) a month and are scrimping and saving to help put a child through college. 

            While there is health insurance available in China, Jason’s family doesn’t have it.  Health insurance is still a new concept in this country.  Group insurance plans for poor villages are now being introduced where farmers give a small amount (perhaps 30 yuan, or $4.30, a year) per family to enroll in a government health program.  When one member of the community becomes ill, part of their medical bills are paid.

            In many villages, however, it’s difficult to convince farmers to give such an amount.  30 yuan is a lot of money, sometimes all they are able to make in a month without their  miniscule government supplements.  They may not be able to afford the 30 yuan or they may not trust that this system will be beneficial to them.

            For the most part, when you become sick in China, you pay upfront.  This is usually not a problem for small illnesses, such as colds or stomachaches.  You might pay 5 yuan (70 cents) for the doctor’s consultation and then a few dollars for the medicines required. 

            But if you are seriously ill, or have a major injury, and the money is not there for treatment, that’s a problem.  I’ve heard of many countryside doctors who dig deep into their own limited incomes to pay for medical supplies for their village patients or give treatment for free.  They care so deeply for those in the community that they can’t see them suffer due to money problems. 

            Of course, there are many special social service health programs for farmers. Jason told me that they could apply for such money grants  for his sister’s operation, but there were tens-of- thousands who also applied.  Unless you knew an influential person in a high position, you would most likely be overlooked.  And the biggest problem was that the money had to be paid first — in full, in cash — to the hospital before any reimbursement procedures would begin.

            Three years, Jason and his family, as well as his sister who worked in Dujiangyan, saved every penny they could.  They borrowed from the bank, which had a loan limit of  5,000 yuan ($714).  They borrowed from relatives. They borrowed from friends.  Slowly, over the past 3 years, the amount rose to the point where the 20,000 was in the bank, ready to be given for the operation.

            Then two weeks before the earthquake, the news came.  His sister needed the operation immediately.  Her condition was serious.  Without it, she would die very soon

            The cost?   Now, due to the worsening of her condition, the doctors estimated 50,000 yuan ($7,140).

            Where and how could he and his family make up a $4,285 difference needed to save her life?

            Jason had quickly returned home during the May 1^st holiday when he heard the news..  After riding on the train for over 24 hours, in the cheapest seat for 88 yuan ($12.60), he arrived in Chengdu.  Before taking the 1-hour busride home to his village, he came to see me.

            “We have borrowed from everyone we know,” he had said, tears filling his eyes. “There is no one else to give us the money.  Now she stays at home to rest so we can take care of her.  My mother and father are thinking what to do.  She is so sad because she sees our parents trying so hard.  It is a heavy burden for all of us.”

            Jason and I sat silently, his pain filling the room. I could think of no words to comfort him.  We only waited  together, quietly.

            “But I bring you too much trouble,” he said suddenly, trying to smile and appear cheerful.  “I will try to think positive.  Maybe my parents can find some special person who has the money.  I can pay the person back after I have a job.  I’m sure they can find a way. . . .  We must find a way.”

            To end his visit on a happy note, we  began fondly reminiscing about last year’s May Day holiday.  We went through my digital pictures of our trip together to Dujiangyan and his family’s village.  Every picture looked so perfect: his sister vibrant, his parents smiling, the two of us laughing.

            Two weeks later and I received Jason’s phone call.

             After the upbeat earthquake news, I eagerly asked him about is sister.

            “She is . . . O.K.  We almost have all the money,” he said. “My parents found someone to help us.  Maybe we need only 10,000 ($1,400) more.”

            “That’s great news!” I replied.  “Really, Jason, you must tell me if I can help with the money.  Your parents shouldn’t delay.  This is just too important.”

            Gratefully, Jason thanked me for my kindness but explained that the doctors told them now was too difficult.  With the earthquake, the hospitals have so many people. The rooms are full.  The hospital workers are busy.  There is no chance to help his sister, even with all the money.

            “When do you think she can have the operation?  Did they say?” I asked.

             ‘Soon, maybe soon,’ the doctor told us,” Jason replied.

             Then he added,  “We are just like those pitiful people in the earthquake. We can do nothing.  We can only wait and hope.”

              For two days, my 20-minute walk across campus to attend my language classes has been somewhat astonishing. 

             After classes resumed on Thursday, I expected the thousands of university students and faculty living on campus to return to their buildings.  Instead, the number of store-bought and makeshift tents, staked-out bedding areas, and chairs and tables has increased.

            I asked several I passed if they were still afraid. 

            Some of the girls said they live on the higher floors.  Although there haven’t been any tremors for 24 hours, they’re still a little worried.

            “Some people on our floor are back,” one girl said.  “But the weather is nice now. We’ll stay outside.”

            “If it rains?” I asked.

            “Go in!” she said without hesitation.

            I approached one group of boys sitting in their makeshift tent. 

            “Are you afraid?” I asked them, peeking into their dwelling’s open flap.

            They laughed with bravado  and threw their arms around each other’s shoulders.

             “No!” one shouted enthusiastically.  “We are not afraid.  We are roommates.  We are together!”

            It seems the reasons for staying outside are somewhat mixed, with those who are worried and others who are joining their classmates so as not to be left out of the experience.

            Attendance in my own courses has been oddly slim, probably due to the fact that no one wants to get up early in the morning after having an unexpected 2-day holiday.        In my 8:30 a.m. class this morning, only 6 of us attended out of the 21 that are usually there.  As I was pulling out my books at the beginning of class, one of the Korean girls came to talk to our instructor.

            “Teacher Guo,” she said, somewhat tearfully, “I must return to my country.  My mother and father are very worried about the earthquake. They want me to come home.  I  leave tomorrow.  I’m so sorry.”

            Four other Korean students likewise are leaving our class.  Since a majority of the 360 registered students in our department are Korean, I’m wondering how many more won’t be in class come Monday morning.

            My Japanese classmates found this very difficult  to understand.  The Japanese experience tremors quite often on their island nation. This is nothing new to them.  The rest of us (Thai, Africans, Europeans, Americans, British)  are likewise quite blasé about our personal encounter with the quake.  It is hard for us to understand the Chinese reaction to all this, especially when nothing terrible happened in our city.

            But I am trying my best not to be too judgmental.  Each culture and individual has a different way of dealing with frightening events.  Here, I see there has been so little, if no, damage at all from the quake, yet the city is still dotted with camping communities set up in public parks, campuses, and apartment complexes throughout the provincial capital.   It may seem odd and extreme to me, but it is the only way some people can cope. These are things I just have to accept when living in another country.

            This morning, however, I did feel the end was near. 

            City and college leaders for two days had  been encouraging residents and students to return to their buildings, if properly inspected for safety. And in my mind, with our 32-hour lull from any major shaking, Friday was going to give us all some peace that this was basically over.  I optimistically expected this weekend to send all outdoor squatters packing up their belongings for home.   

            But  around 1:30 p.m. this afternoon, a strong 5.9 aftershock gave us an unexpected, surprising jolt.  News from the north tells of landslides and more shifting buildings.

             Now I doubt very much if anyone’s leaving their outdoor space tonight.

Those T.V. images of our northern neighbors, a shattered Dujiangyan and flattened  Wenchuan, are too deeply embedded in everyone’s minds.  

            After all, better to be overly cautious than overly sorry.

            A hazy moon filled the sky Wednesday night.

            Those on the university campus were in for a better sleep than the rainy night before.  With classes starting the next day, they would need it.

            As I was wide awake, Little Flower and I took a midnight stroll outside our apartment gate to cruise through yet another community of campers. 

            In the small public park adjacent to my apartment compound, about 250 camped out in purchased portable tents or created their own makeshift ones from plastic tarp placed over trees. Some had dismantled cardboard boxes to lay across the park’s tiled surfaces, then spread out their bedding and nestled cozily underneath.   Two had tied bedsheets to trees and created hammocks which they comfortably snoozed.

            But unlike the university students, whose supplies were sparse, some of these nearby apartment residents came prepared. 

            On our walk down the paved walkways, LF and I passed cots, mattresses, and entire single beds (frames and all) lining the park’s paved courtyard.  All ages were sleeping soundly under their comforters.  In the early morning and evening hours, this area is used by the the elderly who come for their daily slow-moving exercises of taiji.  Others, such as taditional dance or drumming clubs, practice here as well.  With these somewhat stationary squatters on their territory, however, I wonder if they’ve had to find other places to go.

            The park was still and quiet as we walked through, with most of those inside sleeping, but the narrow backstreet that runs next to it presented a different picture. 

            Four heavy wooden mahjong tables  were positioned on the curbside.  The seated players talked loudly while slurping jars of tea.  Their small piles of betting money sat before them as they shuffled and slammed down tiles.  A few observers looked on. One woman in nightclothes cuddled her little dog while watching the game.  Another cradled and rocked her newborn baby. 

            I asked the young mother what floor she lived on. 

            “The 28^th,” she replied. 

            While my apartment complex is quite old, with our concrete buildings only going to  5 or  6 floors, the fancy building next to the park is a grand, 40-story, two-tower wonder.  It’s tiled in pretty pink and  has a restaurant, children’s playroom and adult activity center on the ground floor.   You can even make out an open-air garden on the rooftop. 

            She said her husband and parents, not to mention several of her upper-floor neighbors, were with her. 

            “Are you afraid?” I asked.
            “Now, I’m not afraid,” she said, referring to the earthquake tremors which are currently quite small and far between.  “But it’s safer for the baby.”

            As I returned to my home, I thought about all these city folk, even tonight still camped outside under the half-moon sky.  The atmosphere is calm and peaceful, even at times jovial and full of cheerful camaraderie, but certainly not frightening or solemn.  It almost seems  to be the “in” thing in Chengdu to join  your neighbors in this open-air adventure. So little personal tragedy  is hovering over any of us. 

            But in my apartment, the TV tells a different story.   

            Channels are  showing 24-hour coverage of rescue operations.  I turn on one channel which has continuous scenes starting from Day One of the quake. Hours upon hours of footage show full-scale rescue efforts which are keeping all of China, and the world, updated on the latest from Sichuan.  The news cameras are right alongside the military and volunteer teams who are working so diligently to find survivors.  They capture every moment — the tragic, the hopeful and the miraculous.

            I watch in the city of Beichuan as workers find 5 children still alive in their school.  They are buried under a huge concrete slab that has landed above a pocket of space they are saved by. 

            First, their heads appear as the workers clear the rubble.  The grade schoolers are given hardhats to wear while a crane lifts the heavy slab carefully upward.  It breaks in half and precariously dangles over the children.   Five men  shout for the crane to go more slowly.  Several others try to swing the dangling concrete to the side.

            I hold my breath.

             Finally, it is moved  and no longer poses a threat.  The workers can swiftly begin to carefully pull the children out from under and behind their desks.  They’ve been trapped for 2 days.  Their bodies are crunched onto their chairs.  Two are squatting in a fetal position due to the tiny space they’ve been forced into.

            The entire operation has taken 2 hours although the camera shows the initial rescue in 30 minutes. 

            So many of these demolished buildings were never structurally sound to begin with.  Beams and walls that should have held up ceilings with more strength collapsed in seconds, leaving no one any time to escape.  And some homes, such as those of Jason’s family, are built by the owners who hire cheap, countryside laborers.  These workers have some expertise to create relatively safe homes but certainly not up to  code standards for a disaster.

            These scenes give us all an understanding of why the work cannot go faster.  How desperate families are to find loved ones.  How pressed for time everyone feels to reach those in need. 

            In Chengdu, I somehow feel many city-dwellers have forgotten that the light of this silvery moon shines down upon all of us.  Perhaps it’s time to return home.  Put your beds and mahjong tables back in their proper places and put all that extra energy into helping those hardest hit in the earthquake.

            Until next time,  “Ping An!” (Peace)

              A Wednesday sunrise was to bring normality to Chengdu.

             The  pouring rain stopped.  Not a single noticeable tremor the entire night.  Our campers from the upper floors had dwindled, mostly because the constant rain had chased them away but also because others felt it safe to return to their apartments.   I should know because I was up until after 2 a.m., emailing friends. I saw a few 5^th and 6^th floor lights click on around midnight in three of the apartment buildings across from mine.

             I expected classes to resume  and despite being dreadfully tired, I dragged myself out of bed to get ready for my daily routine:  Chinese courses, swimming , dog walk and homework.

            Instead, the only change was a bit of hazy sunlight breaking through the overcast skies. 

            Just like yesterday morning, I walked quietly by our  tent sleepers,  across the street and asked the university’s West Gate attendants if classes had resumed.  I expected them to assure me they were but they shook their heads.

            “The earthquake,” they said, rather astonished at my stupidity. “Don’t you know?”

            I should have gotten the clue by the absence of children on the streets, going off to school.   With classes canceled, all the kids were sleeping in late.

            By 10:30 a.m., the courtyard was actually quite empty.  Our tent residents had awakened and gone off to work.  Only two or three bored adults were standing outside.  They were reading earthquake articles from the daily newspaper posted behind glass on our outside notice board. 

            But another rather strong tremor hit, sending my ceiling fixtures swaying.  The ground had been steady for so long that most of us had  thought this was truly the end.  Yet another quaking sent those upstairs quickly thundering downstairs.  The elderly slowly made their way back to the cement benches we had occupied for most of  Monday afternoon. The courtyard filled once again with residents and excited chatter.  And from the back alleyway, car horns blared obnoxiously to warn off those who had rushed into the street from their small shops.   This included Jalin’s parents who have been back in business for 2 days now.

             Their convenience store is just one of the many businesses lining the street.  All of these small, one-room shops are actually a part of  our apartment building.  Each owner merely tore out the back wall of their flat, which hugs the narrow sidestreet behind us, and created an easy money-making business for the family.

             My neighbor’s convenience store is actually the Yang family’s only income, which can’t be much.  Jalin told me most of the money comes from her mother’s older sister who went to America to support the family.  She lives in New York City’s Chinatown and does massages and manicures.  A majority of the money she makes she sends back home to support Jalin’s parents, who have only a junior high school education, and help with the care of   grandparents.

            I met Jalin’s 46-year-old aunt last month when she returned to Chengdu for the first time in 7 years.  She informed me that she can make about $3,000 a month in the States, pays $150 for an apartment she shares with two other single Sichuanese women, and sends quite a bit back to China to help her family.   As the oldest sister of the three, and there being no brothers , this would indeed be her responsibility, to help care for everyone.  She even owns the apartment that Jalin’s family lives in and supplied all the funds for them to create their own shop.  With no rent to worry about, the profits can all go to pay for Jalin’s education (current and future) as well as take care of the family’s basic needs.  Since prices for goods are drastically rising across the country, and the Yang’s keep their tiny shop open 7 days a week (10 a.m. to 2 a.m.), this low-income family has no time or extra cash  to spend on frivolous things such as vacations or big city shopping sprees.  They are very frugal with their money and know how to save, like so many of us don’t.    

            When full sunshine finally broke around 2 p.m., I decided it was time for Little Flower and me to get out.  For two days, we had not been on our usual walking route around the Sichuan University campus.  This school is quite large and I had only seen one small part of it on Monday evening when I  left with my neighbors to join others near the school’s West Gate.  Most likely, students would be spread about throughout the school but I was not aware of it.

             This is the disadvantage of not living on campus with the other foreign language students.  I rent my own apartment outside of the school so I never know exactly what’s going on unless someone tells me.  I certainly found this out when LF and I began making our rounds through the main avenues of the university. 

            At the head administration building, an earthquake information center had been erected under a tent.  Most likely on Monday afternoon, the place had been packed with students asking questions and picking up the  school announcement sheets which explained the history of China’s quakes and the rules the school would follow.  Listed on this sheet were the dates of canceled classes, Tuesday and Wednesday, with everything returning to the regular schedule on Thursday.

            If  I’d known that, I wouldn’t have bothered getting up early in the morning for the past two days.

            Throughout the campus, students had set up their bedding outside, either on the grass or under classroom building overpasses that would protect them from the sun and rain.  Well-tended lawns that once were forbidden territory to students now became speckled with squatters.  Hundreds of make-shift bedsheet tents, created by ropes attached to trees, were found in the woodsy areas.  Around the sports stadium, huge plastic canvas sheets had been draped over outdoor exercise equipment, providing quite a cozy corner for the 100 or so students who managed to claim that space.  The sports field had also been opened.  I calculated 400 or more crashed on the asphalt.  
                Tables and chairs positioned under trees allowed comfortable sitting and eating areas.  Most of the students I saw, however, were sleeping on bamboo-woven mats topped with blankets or crashed inside their tents.  I’m sure with the heavy rain last night, those who braved the elements didn’t have a very comfortable rest. 

            Nor were the students the only ones the dog and I walked by.  Teachers with their families had also created their own camping areas outside of their nearby housing units.   Many elderly grandmas and grandpas were fanning themselves under the shade of  trees.  The little kids were playing around them.  The parents read newspapers while listening to Sichuan radio reports of the relief efforts. 

            With all the outdoor activities going on, it reminded me of my childhood summer swimming meets.  Our all-day invitationals had us laying out the sleeping bags on lawns, plastic bags of junk food piled nearby, the radios tuned to desirable channels,  parents resting in lawn chairs, the little kids running about before their races . . . There certainly was a similar lazy yet upbeat atmosphere to the campus.  Everyone was making the best of an unusual, once-in-a-lifetime situation by keeping high spirits.

            There were others, however, who were more service oriented.  When LF and I left the campus for the main streets, we saw university students accepting donations for the earthquake victims.  They had set up a booth outside the Trust-mart,  were waving flags and encouraging passersby to give from their hearts. 

            Another young high school student stood outside the small gate into my apartment compound.  She had written her own message in colorful markers, asking for clothes for the earthquake victims.  Already, she had 4 plastic bags of clothing and was excitedly accepting yet another.  Two reading her sign praised her for her efforts.  I did as well.  We three promised to look through our things to see what else we could add to her pile.

            And on that last note, I will close to keep my promise to our young volunteer before she heads off  to deliver her donations. Like many American women, my wardrobe overflows with a ludicrous amount of never-worn, outdated or just forgotten-about outfits.  It is a sinful obsession I am about to put to good use.  I always knew there was a reason for me being such a clothes’ hoarder.  I guess this was it!

            Until next time, I leave you all with “Ping An” (Peace)  

               Once again, our upper stories remain strangely dark as the rain comes pouring down.   At present, there are 4 tents now set up in my apartment complex courtyard.  

               Earlier in the day, we had quite a crowd gathered outside when another large rattle at 3:14 p.m. sent everyone upstairs pounding down the stairwell at top speeds. 

            “Zou, Zou!  Kuai,  Kuai! (Go!  Go!  Quickly!  Quickly!)” seem to be the phrases on everyone’s lips these past two days.

            The tremors have been continuous all last night and all day, which I find a bit disconcerting.  In Taiwan, our major quake likewise had tremors afterwards but these dissipated and were far between.  It seems every 10 – 20 minutes, we have at least one that rocks my light fixtures.  For awhile, people felt calm and returned to their upstairs’ apartments  until the 3:14 struck.  Several more  strong tremblers followed after that. This caused another large tent to be erected  by a concerned 5^th floor family.  They, however, came more prepared to pass the time.  They set up a table inside and began playing mahjong, a traditional Chinese tile game famous here in Southwestern China. 

            At this time of night, the rain has sent everyone scurrying away to stay with friends and relatives in other parts of the city.  Our tent campers are still holding down the earthquake fort, even with this constant rain.  I do wonder about Sichuan University’s campus and what students are doing at this moment.  Hopefully, they’ve found some security in returning to their dormitories under the supportive care of their classmates.

            This steady rain and the tremors we’ve been having are not at all doing any good for rescue efforts to the north.  TV news reporters stand under umbrellas in the dark, giving commentary while behind them, workers try to continue their digging through the soaked, wet debris.

             One of my greatest concerns actually lies with a Luzhou student of mine, Jason (Li Ke), whose family I visited last year in the hardest struck area. 

            Jason’s parents are farmers and live in a tiny village of 200 near the city of Dujiangyan, which has had thousands of deaths, including those of children in a collapsed school.  Dujiangyan is quite a famous tourist destination.  It’s renowned for its irrigation system, built 2,200 years ago by Li Bing (an official of Sichuan Province) and his son.  It is the oldest and only surviving no-dam irrigation system in the world.  A lovely park area allows visitors to walk the entire mountainous grounds and view what a magnificent accomplishment this was for the 3^rd century B.C. Small temples and pagodas nestle in the thick woods throughout the park, making it a very pleasant all-day venture.

            Jason and I toured the park first and then visited his home later on, a mere 40 minute bus ride from the city.

            I still remember the warm welcome Jason’s family gave me upon my arrival in their small village.  His family was one of the few that had a 2-story cement home with an open, cleanly-swept courtyard that looked much like the traditional China of years ago.  On one side, the family sow was busy taking care of her 14 piglets and on the other, Jason’s father’s farming wooden hand-tools were carefully laid out.

              It was a pleasant May day so many in the village had brought out their mahjong tables which they set up alongside the dusty, narrow country roads that passed here for streets.   Jason led me along pathways that passed by ancient sod houses with clay tiled roofs held up by thick wooden beams.  These are typical farming houses with outhouses in back.  Some have no running water.  Floors are packed solid dirt.  Bare lightbulbs dangle from the ceilings to give off a little light in the windowless rooms.  These kinds of houses are dank, dark, and moldy.  It’s no wonder that so many of the elderly in China who live in such places have terrible congestion problems.

            We walked through Jason’s grade school classrooms, long-since closed and deserted.  Now students attend school in a small town on the main road that leads to Dujiangyan. 

            He took me to visit his paternal grandfather, likewise a farmer who had toiled in the fields for many years.  Everyone had worked very hard to make sure Jason received  higher education.  None in the family had made it past the 4^th grade, nor could they read or write.  Jason, 19, and his older sister, 25 and a high school graduate, were the first to have a good education.

            I also remember how pleased Jason’s neighbors were to have a foreign visitor, the first their village had ever had.  They greeted me shyly at first until they realized I could communicate with them in Chinese and then they began to open up more.

            I fondly think back on this visit just a year ago and now worry how Jason’s small village is today.  Was his home, built by his father, stable enough to withstand such a large quake?  Had the sod houses, which dotted the pathways we walked, made it through the shaking?  Were all his immediate and extended family members, whom I saw, and his kind neighbors, safe?  I have tried several times to contact Jason by telephone to find out the news of his family yet I’ve been unsuccessful.  I can only await an email from him or his call telling me, hopefully, that everything is alright.

            I know that I am not the only one in this situation in China.  There are many more who have closer ties to those who have gone missing than I, but we all are in the same boat together:  Waiting and hoping that all is well with those we care for and hold dear to our hearts.

            Until next time, I’ll leave you all with  “Ping An” (Peace)

            Nearing 9 p.m. on Monday evening, my apartment complex here in Chengdu was oddly vacant.  Upper-story windows had no lights shining through.  No T.V.s were on or family talks heard through the walls.  Where was everyone?  Most of my neighbors had left their apartments for the open sky. The reason?  Our 2:29 p.m. earthquake, magnitude 7.9, had everyone quite worried.

           When the quake itself hit, I left my 1^st floor apartment with my animals,   Little Flower (my 6-year-old Chihuahua mixed pooch) and 5-week-old abandoned kitten, Little Ghost, whom I rescued from the roadside a month ago.

            At first, I was going to stay put.  I sat with the animals under my strong kitchen table to await the stopping of the tremors, but as the quake grew stronger and continued to shake the building, I felt it wiser to leave.  I was in Taipei, Taiwan years ago when that big quake hit but this was much more noticeable, lasted longer and more frightening.

               Later, I learned getting under furniture is the absolute worst place to be during an earthquake.  Collapsing buildings crush everything except the area beside the furniture where a small void is created. This void is a survivor’s haven and is referred to as the “triangle of life” by Doug Cropp, the Rescue Chief and Disaster Manager of the American Rescue Team International (ARTI).  ARTI is the world’s most experienced rescue team.   His expertise also stressed never to stand in doorways (again, you won’t survive) and that stairwells are deathtraps. Likewise standing in the courtyard, like we all were doing, wasn’t safe due to the buildings toppling over onto us.  Being close to the outside walls would have been a lot safer but, luckily, we didn’t have to worry about such a tragedy in our city.     

            Outside in our courtyard area, people poured forth from the buildings.  As it was the early afternoon, most of our residents staying at home during this time are the elderly, younger retired folk, young mothers with newborns or those in private businesses who have flexible hours.  For myself, I have no afternoon Chinese language classes.  Usually, I’d be out walking the dog at this time but I was a bit behind schedule thus I was at home.

            Once the residents made it outside, everyone settled onto benches or walkway curbs around our complex grounds and waited.  Mostly, we all talked about the earthquake.  Everyone has a cell phone in China so many were busily text messaging friends and family members or calling to make sure they were safe.  The atmosphere quickly lifted from one of fright to one of a pleasant outing together with friends and family.  My neighbors played with Little Ghost and praised how well I had looked after my motherless ward.  Little Flower had taken up to romping about with a dog friend of hers.  Other dog owners appeared with their pets as well, but they were unleashed and running wild.  My concern turned from that of the quake to that of having a dog fight on my hands.  I quickly leashed Little Flower just in time to avoid a nasty canine clash.  A vicious bite-and-snarl session took place between two of the larger breeds with the owners unable to pull them apart for some time.  Bystanders scattered while the two dogs went at it.  Fortunately, neither dog was hurt seriously but it certainly scared the rest of us.

            After that, we animal owners were much more careful about allowing our pets to run about so freely. 

            Since no one wanted to return indoors, we all sat outside.  After the second hour, however, I became bored and decided to take a turn around our neighborhood block.            

           Walking along the main busy city street, I found to my surprise that all the small businesses (hair salons, travel agencies, clothes stores, bookshops) were closed.  The Chinese chain grocery store Trust-mart, which never closes for any holiday, along with the 24-hour McDonalds and KFC, were likewise locked up tight.  One roadside flower and fresh fruit shop was crowded with people, not because of purchasing items but because the shop’s TV set was on.  Passers-by, street workers and bicyclists were gathered around to hear the earthquake news and murmur amongst themselves as the reports trickled in.

            Local chain and family-run convenience stores, on the other hand, were doing great business.  Lines were long as people bought bottled water, cans of coke and sprite, potato chips and other snack items, most likely readying themselves to hang out with friends outside of buildings.

            I happen to live across from the West Gate of Sichuan University, where I am currently studying the Chinese language.  Many residents in the surrounding area (and students as well) began packing up bedding, portable stools, blankets, small tents, their computers, cellphones and bags of snacks (fruit, cakes, bread buns, nuts) to camp out on the university grounds.  On my return from my walk, I passed the exodus of people with their sparse belongings heading over to the university down our narrow alleyway.   By the time I returned to my apartment complex,  it was  likewise filling with families setting up for a pleasantly cool night out under cloudy skies.  Still, it was the university where everyone seemed to be heading off to. 

            My first-floor neighbors (14-year-old Jalin and her parents), who live across the stairwell from me, run a small streetside convenience store which is connected to our building and a part of their apartment.  For the first time in years, they closed up shop.  Not even on Chinese New Year do they take a holiday but on this evening, they followed after many going to the campus.

               I was invited to come  so I joined the Yang  family along with Little Flower to see the crowds.

             Along with hundreds of others, my hosts staked out a place, spread out a bedsheet and settled down to a game of cards.  They had packed up several bags of goodies from their shop in case they became hungry from their all-night venture.  For us here in Chengdu, this major quake seemed more like a joyful public picnic gathering  than the tragic event felt in so many other cities nearby.

            While Jalin’s parents and neighbors sat, Little Flower and I wandered   about the nearby campus grounds.  The usually quiet grassy areas we trekked for our walks during the daytime were now filled with people.  About 400 in this small corner of the university had clustered around the open field. Most were students but there were teachers and their families as well, all who live in housing provided by the school.   Some had tents; a few had their computers on. Others curled up with blankets and pillows while nearby classmates messed about with their cell phones, checking text messages or calling friends.   And almost everyone was fully equipped with bags of food.  Fresh fruit, cakes, cookies, shelled peanuts, cans of pop and Styrofoam take-out dinners piled up next to each group huddled together.

             Little Flower, as always, found herself a friendly couple who couldn’t refuse her begging antics.  They fed her sponge cake until I could get her away from them. 

            All were in high spirits, really rather enjoying this adventure and not at all wanting to return, either from fear of another quake hitting or of missing out on a historic experience.

            Along with another possible tremor, there was a huge threat of rain.  All afternoon, the storm clouds rolled over us and appeared about ready to let loose with a downpour.  While Little Flower and I walked around the seated crowds, a brisk wind picked up.  I thought it was going to rain on everyone but our Chinese weather god seemed to hold off, as if he somehow knew everyone outside was in need of some compassion this night.

            Although so many were prepared to sleep out all night, I felt it safe to return to my apartment.  The worst was over and since Chengdu seemed only to have experienced a shake, my dog and I went home. 

            Surfing the Net and tuning in to local TV stations, I discovered quickly the devastation that resulted in areas nearer the epicenter.  We were 60 miles away.  Other smaller cities with buildings not built to withstand such a quake magnitude came crashing down.  Schools, hospitals, office and apartment buildings trapped thousands.  Seeing these images and reading reports, it’s no wonder many Chinese camped out, especially those on the upper floors.

            During the rest of the evening and into the wee hours of the morning, tremors hit again and again.  Those who returned to the floors above mine ended up pounding down the stairwell several times during the night, shouting “Hurry!  Hurry!”. 

             I was still emailing people about my safety until around 2 a.m. when I took a break to stroll around the complex.  About 60 of our residents were camped outside.  Parents with small children had already tucked them into a few portable cots while others were sleeping soundly on their quilts, spread on the grass or hard concrete pavement. Three plastic igloo-type tents housed those who were worried of a later rain.  One group of young people was still talking while eating bananas and oranges.

            Then there were those of us who stayed put and had a restless sleep in our own beds.  Every quiver of the building had us wondering if it would suddenly become as strong as the first.

            Tuesday morning at 6 o’clock sent a downpour which caused those outside our complex to rush home for cover.  When I left for my university classes at 8, there were 10 die-hards from the 5^th and 6^th floors who had positioned themselves on chairs and stools.  They were draped in colorful rain slickers and crouched under umbrellas.  Bowls of instant noodles provided a satisfying breakfast but they were not in the most comfortable environment.  The drizzle was somewhat steady and our temperatures had dropped into the 60s.

            To my surprise, all classes had been canceled, not only for Sichuan University but for all schools in Chengdu.  Students, such as Jalin, had a much-appreciated day off.  My swimming pool was also closed but McDonalds, KFC and Trust-mart  re-opened their doors.  I noticed as I walked by McDonalds during lunch hour, it was quite busy along with all the small, family-run restaurants that line our narrow alleyway.  People were still wary about returning home, mostly as we continued to have tremors throughout the day.     

            As with all my experiences in China, this one once again gives me a valuable view of  life in this Asian country.  More news reports are streaming in about collapsed buildings and desperate measures to rescue so many trapped under rubble. I do pray for their families, friends, and the rescue workers who so diligently will be working to save as many as possible. 

            We are all ready to return to our normal lives and hopefully, that will happen in the next day or so.

            Until next time, as we say in China: “Zai Jian!” (Bye!)