Noah's Travel Journal - China, Third Entry

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Ducks in a Row

Never has a gift like omnipresence seemed so appealing. It would certainly allow for much richer plot development and task dedication. If there were three or four little Noah's running around soaking up experiences, I would not only be able to interact with more amazing people, but also be able to choose from a list of alibis when those interactions went awry. With Christmas come and gone and no such stocking-stuffer Mini-Me's to speak of, the plot lines multiply, but evolve slowly, malnourished by the Grand Illusion: time.

I awoke that early December morning with one last engagement before high-tailing it to Hong Kong to renew my Chinese visa. My business visa contact in Hong Kong materialized from a tip off that I'd received from the man I was on my way to visit, while inquiring about a Wushu instructor. While not a Wushu instructor himself, this self-proclaimed, "German martial arts whore," had decades of weaponry and kung fu experience that landed him a 1-on-1 battle scene with Jet Li in the freshly released film "Fearless." As one of the biggest martial arts movie stars in the world, Jet Li probably didn't just offer anyone a fighting role (even if it was just to receive a merciless face fisting), so I figured a training offer like the one I was making good on, didn't just fall into anyone's lap.

We made our way to the roof of Brandon's apartment high-rise where I demoed my juggling toys until his other private student arrived. 30 stories up, we trained in the "ugly-but-applicable" kung fu style of Wing Chun. We worked on weaponry combat techniques, set forms, and freestyle fighting while trying not to unleash the muscle memory of a trained kung fu artist. Out of pity or because I was enthusiastic about sustaining a beating, Brandon said his action movie casting friend in Hong Kong might have some leads on performing or stunt work.

Putting off my departure like any practiced procrastinator, I had coffee with my fellow roof-top trainee who had another performing lead to share. He drafted out an elegant treasure map of Hong Kong and an adventure path for me to explore. Finally confident I could find my way to the "X" that marked the cheapest hotel in Hong Kong, we parted ways and I went home to gather my provisions.

As I twisted the door handle to leave my apartment, Brandon called with the number of the casting director in Hong Kong. I smiled at such good fortune and celebrated by emptying my bladder one last time before leaving. It was this urination, a descendant of a celebrated lineage, which changed EVERYTHING I had planned for the day. After that brief delay, my second attempt to leave the apartment was met with another telephone call with a much more obvious message.

"Call Ean now! Things move fast in China," Brandon insisted.

After I made the call, I felt like I was in my own film. The tip-off had come and I had to escape the apartment and flee the country immediately. The clock was ticking as I ran through customs and metro system mazes to make an impossible rendezvous time. I holed up in my hotel and called my contact for a status report. He was impressed I'd made it across enemy lines with such brazen hustle and arranged to meet me in a well populated, central location. I arrived punctually and waited for my escort.

"You brought a change of nice clothes in that stuffed bag of yours?"

Hearing the spoken code words I turned to greet the prominent business man. I was dressed in my most fancy clothing combination out of my seven-piece wardrobe (two pairs of pants, four t-shirts and one pink belt), and toting enough juggling toys to entertain a small army, and told him as much. Action movie mode ended with Ean's look of disbelief. Not one to be foiled by a failed fashion sense, he quickly briefed me on my lines and new plan as we walked to our engagement.

I was hurried into the model casting shoot and greeted by a snickering Chinese head-hunter. I told her I had just come from a performance as she grimaced at my unkempt, un-gelled hair and brushed it off my forehead. Her gentle touch sent an avalanche of small dandruff flakes cascading in front of my eyes like a seductive waterfall. I figured good first impressions probably weren't as important in an industry rampant with idiots, eating disorders and airbrushing. Even so, I had to be on my guard.

I changed into the suit they provided for the shoot, and gummed up my hair until I couldn't bear the sight in the mirror. I escaped the reflection only to be sent back to further lower my self-respect. I swore I'd never again submit to the words: "I need you more trendy." My submission policy was quickly revised as the head-hunter instructed me to spike my hair in one direction instead of the random, provocative pincushion look I was sporting.

The irony of my efforts to consciously imitate the mindset and mannerisms of a male-model was lost on me until after the fact. From dressing down to the audition, not knowing how to mousse to the times, being unsure about any measurement other than my shoe size, and smiling for the first headshot, I would have made Zoolander proud. I came away with one piece of wisdom to share with all other twisted individuals trying to think like a successful male model: less is more.

Ean and I laughed our way to a swank bar and talked stunts, martial arts and just where the hell I might find a Wushu instructor. It came time to walk the walk instead of just jabbering so we found a dark patch of lawn in a large park. I was back in action movie mode as I demonstrated my willingness to throw my body around without stretching or warming up. Acrobatics, juggling, break dancing, martial arts and weaponry handling were the components of my audition with the Asian action movie caster that materialized from an early morning kung fu session, and my destiny-changing pee. Anything else on this plotline was just a garnish as far as I was concerned.

Before paying a King's ransom for a business visa and leaving Hong Kong a few days later, the garnish was sweeter than the drowned celery in a Bloody Mary's icy grip. I'd located one diabetes organization that referred me to a Juvenile Diabetes center to be found on a subsequent visit. The diabetes leads in Mainland China had not panned out, but the English spoken on the formerly British-leased islands could only facilitate the future interactions.

Prior to hopping my train to the mainland I had dinner with Ean and two visiting stunt men to discuss specifics of a government sponsored street performance incorporating all the visually splendid and physically harmful things that any audience craves. It sounded like a new breed of street show, or I'd just automatically flipped my ears' mute switch every time someone had dropped an idea like falling two stories onto garbage bags to kick-start a performance. With a post-Chinese New Year start date, there was a lot of work to be done, but I was just excited at the prospect of having a government's blessing and an accompanying permit to show meddling security guards.

In need of polishing tarnished, and shopping for shiny, new acrobatic maneuvers, I acted on a tip from a local gym trainer and headed to an area of Shenzhen, called Baoan. When I got off the bus an hour later I had the strange sensation of actually being in China. Hopping a motorbike taxi and weaving through back-street traffic offered a full spectrum of Chinese delicacies, the bulk of which can be seen at any pet store, with a tad more hair and skin pallor. We pulled into an alley and the only suited man in sight escorted me into a nearby room/house/office.

I realized that I actually didn't know anything about what I was doing. I was acting on second-hand, broken English instruction of where to find a trampoline. Lucky for me, my new friend spoke no English and my Chinese-English dictionary contained minimal acrobatic performance jargon. Pantomiming trampoline bounces and using my limited vocabulary worked on the 10th try and we left the office. Whether the man was a springy mattress salesman with a prospective buyer and nearby warehouse, or thought it would be easier to bring a psych-ward escapee as an offering to the center of the maze of back alleyways extending from his safe haven/sanctuary/landmark, I knew not.

When we entered the gates surrounding the center of the labyrinth, I saw no Minotaur. The only sign of life in the massive warehouse was a young boy sleeping by my feet, sandwiched between two heavy mats. When I looked up from the tender, young cold-cut, I realized I was standing at the base of two mountains of circus props, the likes of which not even young, prospective carnie runaways dare to dream about. Trapeze rigging, guy wires and frames graced the ceiling over the dust-drenched red carpet that marked the way to the unicycle rack. It was a clever "Acrobatic School" guise, but I wondered where my friend was hiding all the mattresses he was going to try to pawn-off on me...maybe the minotaur was occupying them.

The chameleon in me saw its' opportunity for a debut and guided my hand to the toy bag. My juggling rhythm became echoed by the slapping of feet running between the pillars surrounding the main room. Vertical columns of eyes formed next to the walls that hid the shapes of the residents returning from lunch. The eyes then became heads, which became bodies, which became captivated audience members sitting on the mats in front of me.

The captivation contagion was passed my way as the trainers appeared and made the group summit the prop peak and dismantle it. Grasping their individual pieces of the achievement, the group of 20+ youngsters began to demonstrate why China is so well known for an amazing circus culture. Spinning ceramic vases on foreheads, hat juggling, gyrating in metal rings and flipping through the air spinning rope meteors had never been demonstrated so exquisitely. Even the boy who showcased his wushu routine was better than all the live performances I'd seen previously.

I returned a few days later to follow up about instructed playtime and do what I do best in foreign countries: steal tricks. I was greeted by a small contingent of the students who were enthralled in a vampire/kung fu movie, but managed to understand I was looking for one of the adults. When I returned from the bathroom, one of the trainers had appeared and managed to convey that my suited friend was not going to be able to keep our scheduled appointment. By the time I set down my bag and removed my devil sticks, the adult presence had vanished. One of the kids was definitely a conjurer, but which one, and how to stay on his good side?

For three hours I had personal coaches in all of the circus props I'd ever thought of using, as well as ones I shouldn't have allowed to cross my mind. The toys I showed them how to use were an entirely different set from those they possessed, making me an expert by default and by ego proclamation. During my entire stay in the garden of circus bliss I saw no adults. Whether the acrobats were fully matured at their petite size seemed dubious, but with great talent comes great maturity...that's how the saying goes right? Just look at Eminem.

Due to preparing for an upcoming exhibition or because of leaking priceless secrets to foreigners, the school also gave me a start date that hid in the shadow of Chinese New Year. For the benefit of those readers unfamiliar with the timeframe and scope of this relatively minor event in Chinese culture, I'll offer a brief explanation, though it really doesn't merit much attention. It goes something like: the entire country shuts down for more than a month and life as progress knows it, grinds to a halt with a multi-million person exodus back to hometowns. Luckily, those few days between school visits had given me yet another outlet and voltage adaptor to plug into.

As the bus navigated through the traffic jam with the pace of mercury climbing an Antarctic thermometer, I became acutely aware of my role of being a higher power's plaything. There, behind the finger-streaked bus window the Cosmic Teaser dangled the urban performers I'd searched so long for. Under no circumstances are the bus drivers supposed to open the vehicle doors between stops (especially if they can thrust more misery on passengers than in any average day), so I balled up my grievances into a solitary tear that rolled slowly down my cheek. I was the boy whose mother insisted on watching the remainder of her reality show before acquiescing to a trip to the bookstore on Harry Potter's new release date. Unlike the bookstore in this tale of injustice, the bus-driving buzz-kill had no idea when the next shipment of jugglers would arrive, and probably wouldn't tell me even if she knew.

After my initial mission of sequestering powdered snowflakes and other commercial trinkets to remind my shorts and tank tops what they were missing back home that time of year, I raced on foot back to the park I'd been so cruelly barred from. As I approached, the two performers carried on, lost in the realm of the moment. All possessing talents that the others did not, we agreed to share secrets the following day when there would be less of a crowd to dam the creative flow. I was pretty sure about our agreed meeting time, but we weren't really using words.

King and Tony were my first two friends in the circle of Chinese flair bartenders that united at Lychee Park to further the art form. They were the jugglers of Shenzhen, but more focused on the practical application of incorporating style into their profession. I was reminded of an Argentine juggler who had first introduced the concept of performing by day and raking in money by night from entertaining drunks who possess enough cash to frequent upscale clubs.

My familiarity with all skills useless, provided a solid base with which to impress my new friends. As could be expected, 10 talented performers in close proximity for extended periods of time desensitized us to the explosion of skill noticeable to all who gawked from the sidewalk. With minimal common vocabulary, we relied on clowning, pantomiming and pointing to sections of my dictionary, while trying to commit words to memory. All the bartenders wanted to be my friend and were so ridiculously nice that I was sure they were buttering me up to be the patsy for a massive heist.

Christmas Eve brought maximum occupancy, lamp oil and free drinks at King and Tony's club. I knew it was probably the winning setup for the fall they had been waiting for me to take. Possessing no liability insurance, I would be the hapless foreigner who torched a million dollar venue and its' patrons on its' biggest night all year. Fortunately, their up front monetary remuneration for my three act fire juggling burlesque show was the only cash that traded hands that night. Needless to say, I had my doubts as flaming, blue drops of fuel sought holiday flight specials into nearby airspace for the first half of the fire spinning act.

It had only been three and a half weeks and it was time again to escape the country for visa purposes...and Hong Kong was blowing up like Bikini Atoll. Granted I've seen only a fraction of this wide world, but the only comparable experience I had for Hong Kong on New Year's Eve, was Rio de Janeiro during Carnival. Being in Hong Kong again after my time in Shenzhen was as refreshing as taking a trip to San Francisco from the Pacific Northwest to remember that skin comes in Technicolor. Beings from every continent, culture and galaxy were represented on that island and I finally blended in.

Miles of street had been shutdown as even five-lane byways were crammed with foot traffic. Figuring the riot police were on the scene to ensure everyone enjoyed the party safely, I gathered a crowd to do my part in augmenting the festivities. One camera woman and a few children quickly grew into a threat to national security and the flak jackets moved in. Granted a collective audience of hundreds booing on command will do damage to any officer's ego, but firing up the engines on the fleet of paddy wagons was uncalled for. The day that performers stop getting ornery with authorities is the day they stop making money, and the day before previous proceeds go towards making bail.

While nostalgic, New Year often seems like a collective societal reflection and action point that is completely arbitrary. This view is not a "half-empty" one, but rather one of a "bottomless cup." On a New Year's Eve long ago, my brother and I strived to implement a policy of reinventing and resolving ourselves on a daily basis instead of picking one special date, regardless of the occasion. Once life-changing resolutions are made every day, do it twice, ten times, every hour and then between seconds. There is precious little time to be feeling guilty about things we have or haven't done while time endlessly trundles by. Time didn't begin on January 1st, so don't hold your breath to start making your own mental utopia by meeting goals. Time DID begin however, on September 28th, so the next time you celebrate a REAL New Year, remember that it's also my birthday...which is no coincidence.