Chinese Language Blog

Many people have asked about my experience studying kungfu at Shaolin first hand (体验生活－tǐ yàn shēng huó), so here’s a in-depth look at what the Shaolin hustle is all about. While prior to my stay, I had very little experience in Shaolin kung-fu styles and methods of training and was quickly thrown into a sink or swim situation with my trainers. It was tough. Each day was  challenge. Yet that being said, my time spent as a Shaolin student was one of the most unforgetable and enjoyable moments of my life even amidst all the hardship and pain. Here’s the abridged story:

Eating Bitterness

I arrived at the Zhengzhou Train Station amidst chaos and confusion. After having my suitcase yanked out of my hand by a man claiming to help me carry it, my new peng you, I nearly had to put my pre-Shaolin training to good use, as the man insisted upon me paying 25 kuai for his unwanted help. Two seconds off the train and I was already being singled out as a bumbling foreigner.

Not off to a good start and it was only getting worse. I had no way of contacting the kung fu school, and had no idea of the name of the people meeting me. I did have the fact that I was the only caucasian in the train station on my side, but even in Zhengzhou, that was like finding a needle in a haystack. Hours passed with me pacing back and forth across the parking lot, waiting stations and outside square. Had I been cheated by my travel agent? Where was my ride?

Realizing that I wasn’t sticking out as much as I’d hoped, but I did notice a group of people practicing taichi (太极拳－tài jí quán). I figured this was as good a time as any to get in some practice, so I joined the group and within minutes I had an audience watching my every incorrect move. After a couple of rounds, my ride materialized out of the crowd, grinning cheek to cheek. He ushered me towards a little Datsun where we were met by a teen monk. We crammed into the car and were off puttering up the mountains.

A 拖拉机 or three-wheeled tractor.

We had made it about 20 km, pumping terrible techno music and playing twenty questions when a three wheeler ignored a red light and drove into the intersection right in front of us, causing my driver to slam on the breaks. We skidded half way through the intersection managing just to glance the back of the tuō lā jī 拖拉机 as it chugged along. My driver, Jiang, and the other monk, Jia, both leaned out the windows and yelled some obscenities as the three wheeler slowly and comically escaped.  The two monks saw the look of fear on my face, patted my on the back and burst into laughter. For the rest of the ride my heart felt as though it was in my throat.

After arriving at the school, I was introduced to the other monks, our cook/cleaner and two other foreigners that had arrived the day before. One was Italian and the other British. Neither spoke a lick of Chinese. It became obvious that I was the designated translator. After a highly greasy meal (which would be essential as the weeks wore on), I was shown to my room–a wooden cot with an electric fan next to it. Then I was given a lecture on not using running water unless absolutely necessary. The toilet was a hole in the ground with the most god-aweful smell I’ve ever had the misfortune of sniffing wafting through the hallway. Welcome to the Shaolin way!

吃吧！

I awoke the next morning at 6 am to screams through the hallway calling us to breakfast. The monks here had a weird habit of waking up early for breakfast and then napping or vegitating out in the remaining two hours before our first session of training begins at 8 am. As it turns out, they were trying to digest the food before morning’s workout began. I didn’t pick up on this until my second day of training. Rookie mistake.

Training began with a “run up the mountain” which to be fair was only a 3 k up-hill run, but still taxing in the 34 degree celcius weather and stiffling humidity. Then began jibengong (基本功－jīběngōng) or “the basics” which almost every monk does everyday for at least two hours. The aim of these exercises is to promote flexibility and basic motions require for all Shaolin kung fu styles. Here an example of jibengong:

Afternoon sessions were similar to morning, but would focus on a a specific routine using both weapons and your limbs. It would usually last 3 hours long (from 2-5pm) and would finish with another run, jibengong and a series of leg exercises. My least favorite of which was the dreaded Horse Stance. Imagine having to hold this pose for ten sometimes twenty minutes straight, all the while having a trainer correct you by smacking you, kicking your legs or even putting their full weight on on your back:

After two days had passed, I was sore everywhere. I couldn’t eat enough food at breakfast, lunch or dinner to satiate my roaring appetite. Walking up the four flights of stairs to get to my dorm room was a reminder of how out of kung fu shape I was. Unfortunately I had one more lesson to learn.

The next day on our morning mountain run I slipped on a jutting rock and managed to roll my ankle up something fierce. Jiang insisted that I run it out, which meant another painful half km back to the training grounds. By the time I got there, my ankle was the size of a softball. I told Jiang I couldn’t do jibengong, and that I needed to ice and 休息 (rest). This is when I became familiar with the phrase “eat bitterness” or 吃苦 (chī kǔ). Jiang, while impressed by the size of the swelling, told me that here you cannot shy away from bodily pain. I could ice and “take medicine” for the next hour, but by afternoon he expected me to fully participate in the run, jibengong and Horse Stance drills. I told him I doubted I could stand on it by then. His response: “We all must eat bitterness here, you must too”.

Unable to find ice, I settled for a few ice cream bars and a couple of ibuprofen. But the monks kept telling me to “take medicine”. I told them I did, and they said “chinese medicine”. Our cook then proceeded by buy a bottle of baijiu (白酒), gave me a small swig and then poured it into a bowl and lit the bowl on fire. While the small blue flame burner she quickly and vigorously rubbed the hot fluid on my ankle, while pulling on it. It was an excruciatingly painful ordeal, and by the time she was done I was minus a good chunk of leg hair.

Then almost miraculously the pain turned to numbness. What was in that bottle of 白酒？I could walk on it, run and even do jumping kicks within hours. Sure it still hurt somewhat, but I wrapped up my ankle and took to the hills and toughed it out through the afternoon session. While Jiang did single me out and pick on for a lot of exercises that day, he later told me it was “necessary” for my training. When pressed further, he just told me to rest up for tomorrow because “it hurts more the next day” with a sadistic smile.

When you’re learning a language, it’s almost impossible to directly translate everything into your mother tongue. This is certainly true for native English speakers studying Chinese. Today, I’m going to introduce you to some interesting Chinese words that really require you to think in Chinese, as they cannot be translated directly into English.

东西 (dōng xī)

This word – meaning “thing” or “stuff” – directly translates into English as “East/West.” However, it is not used to talk about direction. Here’s the most common phrase associated with this word: “go shopping” or “buy something” (买东西 – mǎi dōng xī). Way back in the Han Dynasty, Luoyang (洛阳 – luò yáng) and Chang’an (长安 – cháng’ān – now Xi’an) were the two biggest commercial cities in China. At that time, Luoyang was referred to as “East Capital” (东京 – dōng jīng – now the Chinese name for Tokyo) and Chang’an was called the “West Capital” (西京 - xī jīng). If people went shopping in Luoyang, they’d say “buy East” (买东 – mǎi dōng) and if they headed to Chang’an, they’d say “buy West” (买西 – mǎi xī). Over time, this evolved into the simple expression that we have today – 东西. Here are a few examples of this Chinese word in action:

我想去超市买东西 – wǒ xiǎng qù chāo shì mǎi dōng xī

I want to go to the supermarket to buy things.

这是什么东西？- zhè shì shén me dōng xī

What’s this?

我要吃东西 – wǒ yào chī dōng xī

I want to eat something.

左右 – zuǒ yòu

At first glance, you might translate this simply as “left and right.” While it’s true that’s one way you can use this, it can also mean “about”/”approximately.” There isn’t an interesting story attached to this word, but you will hear it quite often in daily life. Here are a few examples:

走路十 分钟 左右 – zǒu lù shí fēn zhōng zuǒ yòu

About a 10 minute walk.

我们的公司一共有三百人左右 – wǒ men de gōng sī yì gòng yǒu sān bǎi rén zuǒ yòu

Our company has approximately 300 people.

他身高1点5米左右 – tā shēn gāo yì diǎn wǔ mǐ zuǒ yòu

He’s about 1.5 meters tall.

马上 – mǎ shàng

Although it’s certainly possible to use these two characters in their direct translation – “on the horse” – it’s more common to hear them used in oral Chinese meaning “right away”/”quickly.” As the story behind this word goes, there was a general who heard that the Emperor was gravely ill. He was so worried that he remained on his horse and headed to the capital immediately. Here are a few common examples for you to put to use:

我们马上就走 – wǒ men mǎ shàng jiù zǒu

We’ll leave at once.

音乐会马上要开始了 – yīn yuè huì mǎ shàng yào kāi shǐ le

The concert is going to begin soon.

看起来马上要下雨了 – kàn qǐ lái mǎ shàng yào xià yǔ le

It looks like it’s about to rain.

酒鬼 – jiǔ guǐ

Chances are you’ve probably never seen an “alcohol ghost,” but you have probably encountered a “boozehound,” “wino,” or “drunkard” at some point. If you’re like me and you’re nursing a cocktail at the moment, then you might just be able to describe yourself as such. Or if you’ve got a roommate like mine who always has Bloody Marys ready on Sunday mornings, you could say:

他是个酒鬼 – tā shì gè jiǔ guǐ

He’s a boozehound.

Of course, this word can also be used more seriously, meaning “alcoholic:”

我的父母都是酒鬼 – wǒ de fù mǔ dōu shì jiǔ guǐ

My parents were both alcoholics.

老板 – lǎo bǎn

This one translates directly as “old board.” Bet you’d never guess that this one actually means “boss” in Chinese. Well, it does! I’m sure plenty of folks out there feel like their boss is about as exciting as an old piece of wood, so I guess this one makes sense after all. Let’s look at a few sentences with this word:

我的老板让我加班 – wǒ de lǎo bǎn ràng wǒ jiā bān

My boss makes me work overtime.

今天老板很生气 – jīn tiān lǎo bǎn hěn shēng qì

The boss is very angry today.

我们的老板是美国人 – wǒ men de lǎo bǎn shì měi guó rén

Our boss is American.

These are just a few examples of words that can’t exactly be directly translated into English. It wouldn’t make much sense if you said in English, “My old board is a real alcohol ghost.” It also wouldn’t make any sense if you said “I’m going to the mall on the horse to buy East/West.” Learn the Chinese words and how to use them the Chinese way, and forget about trying to translate everything into your native language. Before we go, here’s one more word that should motivate and maybe also confuse you – 加油 (jiā yóu) – which literally means “add oil,” but can also be used to encourage (as in “go team!” or “you can do it!”) So add some oil and keep working on your Chinese.

Everyone has their own way of coping with the heat. For most, it involves fleeing to the comfort of air conditioning and electric fans indoors. But what happens when you’re stuck outside in the stifling heat? Most parts of China are in the upper 90s during the July and August months, with debilitating humidity that makes the United States deep south feel tolerable. Down on the street, the pavement feels like hot coals and the heat absorbed by building and concrete makes you feel like a steamed bun (包子). Fortunately, the Chinese have discovered a way to keep cool in this kind of heat in an interesting fashion display I haven’t seen anywhere else.

It’s called bǎngyé (膀爷) “exposing grandfathers” (despite the wide range of ages that do it) and it’s how men stay cool in China. How does it work? Well, when the temperature gets too hot, men simply roll up the bottom of their shirts to expose their mid-drift and stomach. As they perspire, they use their bottom flap of their shirt to fan cooler air over the exposed stomachs. It’s especially effective after eating a meal, as most of the blood in your body rushes to your stomach while digesting. As a result Chinese men–of all ages– swear by this fashion faux pas way of staying cool, as I’ve watched as everyone from Beijing businessmen to Shaolin monks put their tummies on display.

For westerners visiting China, it’s somewhat confusing seeing a slew of businessmen in full suits with plump bellies protruding out. But that’s just how the Chinese roll…up their shirts. Western notions of propriety and manners are thrown out the window here. Comfort trumps etiquette when the heat becomes just too much. While not everyone loves seeing the exposed grandpas, it’s hard to get them to stop showing off their stomachs when partial public exposure is common in the mainland. That’s not to say that the government hasn’t tried to censor these grandpa midriffs.

In fact, over the past couple of years, Beijing, Shanghai and other big Chinese cities have been trying to stop Chinese men from exposing their stomachs, with very little success. Numerous campaigns have been waged to liken bang ye behavior to lower-status, but it’s hard to convey when all walks of life do it. Many have even come to the defense of bang ye men, claiming it as a cultural peculiarity that harms no one and only seems to offend fashionistas and foreigners. My philosophy is: if it works, stick with it. Why try and imposed foreign standards of propriety on a culture without Judeo-Christian notions of shame?

In the US we say “sun’s out, guns out,” which is a slang term for taking off your shirt when the heat is too much. In China, they take a more tempered approach, and keep the shirt on–well at least from the chest down. Any of you that still thinks it’s uncouth, next time you are melting on a Beijing street, pull up your shirt and let your stomach breath. You might just find that it works, regardless of how silly it makes you look.