connie's space

           Thursday morning  brings China’s earthquake virtually out of the international news.                                                                    

           In the States, Sen. Kennedy’s  illness claims headlines.  Internationl reports now turn to poor Myanmar, whose massive relief aid waits entry into a country with a military government very hesitant to allow it in.  And in China, the 3rd day of mourning over, the hardest struck areas are beginning to pull themselves together with hopes of a new future.                                                                                                                               

          In Chengdu, more schools  resumed their courses today.  Kids were out playing with their usual carefree abandon after being cooped up in classrooms all day.  Recreational facilities (such as my swimming pool complex, city amusement parks, exercise gyms, and sports’ centers)  once again opened their doors to the public.                                                                                                                  

          I assumed that city residents would be moving back indoors but it seems the earthquake has sunk in deeper than I could ever have imagined.  Camping communities are not shrinking by much, if at all.  Only 1 tent has disappeared in my compound.  The rest of our outdoor set-up still remains, the owners’ bedding carefully folded in preparation for another sleep under the stars.                                                                                                   

         This same thing can be said for the small parks that line Chengdu’s river canals.                                                                                                       

         On my return from the pool by taxi, I passed hundreds of outdoor shelters squeezed and crammed together along these canal front parks.  Residents sat on stools or chairs in front of their quickly erected homes.  Some sipped tea. Some knitted sweaters.  Some read newspapers.  Children who had returned from school were doing their homework on tables placed outside. They worked quickly. With another overnight sleep-out, darkness would soon be upon them and there would be little light to do their lessons.                                                                

        One does wonder just when people will pack up and go home.                                                     

        As my taxi  today drove  by these thousands of tents and their relaxed, seemingly happy occupants, I felt my anger rise.                                    

       “Too many tents and people living outside,” I vented to the driver.  “It’s safe!  No more earthquake.  No more big aftershocks.  Go home!  

      “Jiu-shi! (Yes!)”, my driver piped up, voicing his total agreement in Sichuan dialect.                                                                                             

       He added that  all was well here. He was living inside his apartment.  No problems at all.  But others, he explained, were still afraid.  The earthquake was a very bad happening.                                                                                                                        

        “They should go home, send their tents to the survivors,” I muttered. “Those people have lost everything.  They have no clothes.  They have no things.  They have no homes.”                                                                                                                                             

       “Jiu-shi!” my eager listener whole-heartedly concurred.                                                             

       Encouraged by his support, I continued my rant. I suggested the government make them all go home. If they don’t go home, the police will give them a fine.  The 1st day’s fine is 10 yuan ($1.40).  The 2nd day’s fine is another 10 yuan.  The 3rd day’s fine is still yet another 10 yuan.                                        

        My driver admired my innovative idea.                                                                           

       “If they must pay money,” he said, “they will all go home very quickly.”                      

       “And the money and tents we send to the survivors!” I grandly proclaimed as the driver pulled up to my destination.         

        His reply?                                                                                                                             

       “Jiu-shi!”

        Well, at least that’s one Chengdu resident I’ve won over.  Only 10 million more to go.

            From Chengdu, once again wishing you all a “Ping An!” Peace

Reminder for Those Wanting To Help

United Methodists:  UMCOR Advance #982450, International Disaster Response, China Earthquake

Others:  The Amity Foundation   www.amityfoundation.org

            Although this website is openly read by anyone, I will just send a private note to those of you who are of the United Methodist Church, with which I am affiliated.

            Now that things have calmed down, the money is trickling in instead of pouring in. I feel it’s a good time to raise that aid help with a reminder to those of you who are a part of the United Methodist Church community.

            We have a great way to give for many disaster-struck areas both domestic and international, the current earthquake relief in China being one of them.  This is UMCOR (United Methodist Committee on Relief), which in China goes through The Amity Foundation as our long-time friend and Global Ministries partner.  Giving to UMCOR, via your church or Annual Conference, will give you credit for support.

            Here’s your number.  Let’s see what ya’ all can do!

UMCOR Advance #982450,

International Disaster Response, China Earthquake

            As always, “Ping An!” (Peace)

            Upon emerging from my apartment at 11:30 a.m. today,  I found that my neighbors had been quite productive that morning despite little sleep due to our midnight scare.   Elaborate makeshift dwellings had suddenly appeared.  Chairs, tables, sofas, mattresses, folding beds and cushions had been moved under huge tarps tied to trees.  Instead of bed comforters, which some had laid on the ground  last night, there were now sturdy nylon tents to take their places. 

             In less than 10 hours, we had gone from 10 portable camping shelters of all kinds to 17 store-bought tents and numerous makeshift tarp homes.

            I passed one couple and their daughter who live in the building next to mine.  They were putting together a small, brand new tent on the spot I had inhabited just a short time before.       

            “How much did you pay?” I asked them in Chinese. 

            “350 yuan ($50).”

            With their answer, I got to wondering:  Just how much are people paying for tents these days?

            Since the dog was in need of a walk, I decided the two of us would head over to Sichuan University where I’d  find out.  I had a feeling that if tents were popping up in my yard, imagine what the campus would look like.

            Sure enough, as soon as Little Flower and I walked through the West Gate entrance, it was apparent  I’d have a lot of possible respondents for my survey.  A camping community of about 700 spread before me and many were in tents.

            There are two areas at the West Gate which have become the favorites for gatherers.  One is a long, wide strip of lawn between the main campus road and a science building.  Another is a small compound, an open field just to the left of that. 

             I proposed to approach people in both areas and say in Chinese:   “Excuse me.  I want to ask you how much was your tent?”

            My first survey participants were taken from three single domed nylon tents.  The  university students who sat inside scowled when telling me the price they had paid.

            800 yuan ($114.25) each, just purchased that morning.

            Considering their tents looked of cheap quality and were much smaller than my neighbor’s, who had paid 350 for theirs, I’d say they had a reason to scowl. 

            I approached one van that pulled up with a larger tent variety with folded aluminum support poles. It was very similar to one in my complex that’s been there for the entire week. 

            When I asked the cost, the driver growled.

             “Too much,” he said.

            “How much?” I pressed.

             “1,800 yuan ($257).”

            That same tent in my compound was 1,200 yuan ($171), but bought last week.

            For an hour, the dog and I made our way through the growing number of campers, some arriving in their cars while others walked. I found everyone I talked to very willing to tell me the amount they had paid.  Some even volunteered the prices of their friends or family members who had likewise purchased tents.

            Just out of curiosity,  I took a rough count of the many store-bought varieties I saw.  I calculated 35 on the lawn area and 87 in the open compound, all sandwiched between their poorer makeshift neighbors.  Although I didn’t talk to everyone, merely those who caught my eye, I felt I was getting somewhat informed about the situation.  

             At first, I thought the size of the tent and the number of special features determined the price.  But as I toured about, I found that larger family or backpacking tents for 2 to 4 people sometimes went for 400 – 600 yuan ($57 – $86) while the same or smaller tents went for 500 – 1,000 yuan ($71 – $143).  Why was that?

            I finally came to the conclusion that, at present in Chengdu, there are two kinds of tents:  BC (Before the Chaos) and AC (After the Chaos).  Tent sellers today made a killing, with customers paying any price given, while tent sellers yesterday had to be more cautious of their mark-ups. 

            The only anomaly concerned my neighbors, who had purchased theirs today for a very reasonable $50.

            Upon my return home, I tracked down the husband.

            “Your tent was a great price,” I commented.  “Why so cheap?”

            My neighbor smiled mischievously.

            Leaning in, he whispered, “I know the shop owner’s brother.”

            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.