"Why am I here?"

Travel Story by Shannon Lamb

Hauhau, China

The aroma of unfamiliar vegetables and meat grilled on an open flame, cesspools that haven't been cleaned, fish dried, salted and hung for sale, wrestle to dominate the scent in the air. In the distance I hear the rambling sound of an approaching train, the muffled voices of children speaking a foreign tongue, I see aging men practicing ancient traditions, the faces of youth and all their ambitions. I close my eyes, a prolonged moment– I open them again.

"Where am I, and why am I here?"

Hauhau, Hunan Province, South China, the place lonely planet describes as "a small drab town built around a train station... not the sort of place you would chose to come to." I teach English at the Middle School in town. It is the occupation of disenchanted young adults searching for hidden truths, and wonder filled retirees recapturing their youth. Sixteen classes per week, nearly 600 souls bound in an unspoken pact to test the limits of my patience. Some days they succeed in propelling me into blind fury, others I triumph and keep my frustration disguised. I don't blame the students; they know pressure that the common Western student will never experience. Their years at primary school hinge upon one exam, which decides their eventual University placement. To a Chinese person, this equates to nothing less than life's eventual social standing. It is therefore no surprise that suicide rates are at an all time high after the exam grades are released. English with the foreign teachers is simply a time to let loose, learning is for the other 8 to 9 hours of the day. This suits me fine, because although I wouldn't admit it to my colleagues, I didn't come to China just to teach.

Just a month ago, assaulted by the smells, disgusted by the holes in the ground that doubled for a toilet, sick of eating dumplings and rice, because it is all I could manage to order, I couldn't remember why I left New York City. Alone in a room contemplating my latest locale I receive a phone call from my foreign affairs officer inviting me to a banquet.

I arrive at the restaurant and am escorted into a private room with one large circular table and am greeted by the applause of my Chinese hosts. The women on one side, the men on the other; a cup is placed in front of each; wine and Bajou are poured respectively. "Ganbei!" we yell and wave our glasses to begin our miniature feast.

A large bowl of Mutton boiled over an open flame infused with vegetable or potato, a bowl of pig's feet, to which I politely decline, succulent fish cooked on the bone, followed by steamed cabbage laced with fiery hot pepper and vinegar, fried cucumber, boiled Chinese potato, cow's liver, fried pumpkin sprinkled with sesame, tofu doused in pungent spice, duck served on the bone bursting with subtle flavor, the list goes on as a multifarious blend of tastes and smells matriculate onto the table. All the while the clank of chopsticks on the numerous bowls is barely heard above the shouts of Ganbei, Cheers, and Bottom's Up, as the Chinese fulfil a tradition of making guests drink more than they take. We laugh and we eat, as the spirits perform magical feats, and suddenly the language barrier dissipates and I am at home, with friends.

The night is young and we are escorted to a Chinese dance hall. In this foreign land I find myself in the midst of a ballroom dance. When questioned, none can recall where they learned, but each performs like Fred and Ginger as I clumsily display my lack of forte. Dancers are paid to escort you onto the floor and the men laugh as I step on their toes, and some decline a dance saying I'm too tall. As the night progresses and beer is poured, my smile struggles to leave my lips and my laughter is as genuine as it has ever been. The M.C. stops the music and the teachers tell us he just asked the crowd to applaud the two foreigners in the hall, for tonight they are blessed with our presence. I can't help thinking they have it all wrong and wish I could convey that I am the one who should be applauding. I start to laugh and all at once remember why I chose to be a vagabond.

In the weeks that progress I am continually humbled by the graciousness I been shown in this land. I would never have expected or dreamed of more. My boyfriend and I have a retired teacher as our morning Tai Chi teacher; I am learning ballroom dancing, my mah-jong is improving, we are showered with banquets and hospitality, and even my students have their shining moments.

But, when all is quiet and the days good and bad times are had, there is only me. Alone is my thoughts, I find the conclusions I draw about life, myself, my goals, are as far away from what I thought only months ago; as is the distance that separates me from my country. I can't help but wonder if the traveller seeks not only the beauty of another land, but to hear the voice inside their heads that has long been hidden by all that is familiar. Maybe that is why I am here.

Read more about the author of this story:
Shannon Lamb