Typing on a broken macbook...

A mosquito bites
Planting bud which then blossoms
burning red petals.

Okay, so maybe a Japanese haiku isn’t the most appropriate thing to put as my first post in staunch anti-japonesa China.
But I can’t stop obsessing over my mosquito bites.
For the first weeks, trapped in the rural village of my dad’s side of the family where oxen and foul run free outside my window, I had literally locked myself in the sanctuary of my parent’s marital room with the AC turned as low as it could possibly go, completely paranoid that I would be invaded by the devil’s flying, buzzing, blood-sucking minions. The few times I left the room, I would first strap on the masks my mom provided in case of an outbreak of swine flu and armor myself with insect repellent abundant in deepwoods deet. I’m almost certain there’s enough poison in my system now to kill a small pig, and certainly enough to hopefully kill any straying strands of swine flu floating about.
HBA has already been penetrated by the virus, a welcoming gift from a Yalie residing down the hall for me who had the expected fortune of sitting next to a carrier on the ride here. As a result, the Chinese government came in Haz- Mat suits to take him away and to also quarantine five of my unfortunate classmates. Needless to say, they were stone cold PISSED. However, the potential crisis of them shutting down our entire program has been adverted, though I can’t say that being sent back to the states would be a totally unwelcome consequence at the moment.
I suppose the resident tyrant and pimp of the Harvard Chinese Department had warned us, “HBA no fun. You no sleep. You no eat. You no learn culture. You learn chinese. Chinese, chinese, and only chinese.” But come on, I didn’t think that he was actually serious. Blame me for romanticizing college summers abroad, but expected a minimal amount of work and more time to create a set of Beijing adventures with my tongxuemen. Instead, I live a life of Chinese, Chinese, and more chinese, 24/7. I don’t think I’ve ever resented being chinese more in my life.
I didn’t think it would actually be that rough of a transition to a world where I could only express myself in a native and foreign language. If I can survive a summer speaking practically only Cantonese at home, how rough would it be to slightly tweak my tones for mandarin? Answer—very, very, difficult. It’s in my very nature to talk, completely deprived of my honed tool known as the English language, I’m stumbling to pull together words that get nowhere close to what I really want to say, to the point where I’m keeping my mouth shut sometimes just to avoid the hassle. And it sucks. The point had passed when the novelty of summer camp had worn off and everyone around me were walking, bitter stress cases.
I suppose the bright side to the depressing mode of living is that those that suffer together bond together. After surviving our first week, we at least emerged intact if not completely whole, and gave ourselves up to a weekend of sleep and partying and club hopping to turn memories of the bygone week into a more bearable haze. Thank god for all the freedoms that come with being 18 in China! =]
And so sets a cycle of work and of forgetting work that will likely sadly define the next eight weeks here. If I survive, I’ll be sure to bring back cheap poorly manufactured, sweatshop-produced souvenirs for everyone.