www.fimomitchell.com

A Montrealer In China was a great place for me to share stories about my experiences in the country I’ve called home for the past eight years, but tonight I’m putting it to rest to launch my own website (www.fimomitchell.com) which will feature my blog, poetry, videos and much more.

We’re playing football

Determined to get a first down on 3^rd and 5, the two students along with a teacher and the school principal, gather at mid-field to formulate a play.  When they return to the line of scrimmage, I remind my teammates to stick closely to the person their guarding, so that we can take the ball over on downs with good field position.

Their perfectly executed trick play leads to a big gain.  Two plays later, they score and celebrate the first touchdown of the game on a 10-yard reception. Despite this just being a touch-football practice, my competitive nature doesn’t allow me to rejoice with my opponents, but I do congratulate the student for making a great catch under solid coverage.

Although it’s not until the game is over that I will verbalize it, I’m extremely proud of what I’ve just witnessed. You see, apart from the principal, his son, the other teacher and me, the players on the field are girls who had never touched a football until last spring. Thinking back to their initial introduction to the game, brings a smile to my face.

It was the middle of May, Wes, the PE teacher, had just completed the football unit with the grade 10 boys when he asked me, “Are you gonna come out and work with the girls too?” Having thoroughly enjoyed my regular visits to Wes’ class where I helped the boys with their throwing, catching, route running and defense, I immediately answered, “Yeah, for sure, I’ll come out as much as possible”.

“I just hope they can pick it up,” I added, wondering how a group of mostly inactive teenage girls would take to a game that’s predominantly played by strong and athletic males.

Prior to leading the girls onto the field to throw around the football, Wes, spent most of the first lesson in a classroom playing clips of several NFL games and teaching key rules and basic gridiron terminology. He employed the same strategy with the boys and it proved beneficial.

Once on the field, both Wes and I were surprised by how quickly most of the girls grasped the technique behind throwing a football. “Man, their spirals are tighter than the boys,” I said, while watching them toss ten yard passes to each other.

Though catching the ball was a constant problem, after a week, almost the entire class was able to run the patterns we taught them. But even more impressive, was their overall excitement for the sport; they had a glow in their eyes that wasn’t existent during the basketball and soccer units.

Grade 10 PE class... the girl with the ball is incredibly fast.

Granted, they didn’t run as fast or throw the ball as far as the boys, but their willingness to learn and diligently practice the fundamentals, created the sort of environment that teachers delight in.

It’s 2^nd and 10, we’ve managed to march the ball down the field with a series of short completions and we’re now huddling on the opposition’s twenty yard line.  “Silvia, do a stop and go,” I say, looking into the eyes of my short and round receiver that happens to have one of the best pair of hands in the school. (The previous week, Silvia was the only student who was able to attend practice. It was during that session that I taught the teenage girl the stop and go pattern, telling her that it will be our secret weapon the next time we played a game).

Hoping to throw off the other team, I ask the principal’s son to quarterback the play and tell him to make sure that he pump fakes before passing to, what should be, a wide open Silvia in the end zone.

The play goes off without a hitch.  As expected, Silvia’s route freezes her defender, giving her all the separation she needs. The quarterback’s  throw is accurate, the catch is made and the game is tied at seven.

The match produces many highlights and rather fittingly ends in a tie, with both sides applauding the other for a sound effort.

“Mr. M, next time you must teach us that play, please don’t forget, okay?” says the girl that was beating by the stop and go route. “Okay, no problem,” I respond, with a wide grin, appreciating that I’m not the only one looking forward to next Wednesday.

The visit, in pictures

Students hand out lollipops to orphans.

A former student of mine plays cards with an orphan.

A volunteer and four of the youngest orphans.

An orphan shows her English notebook to a student.

Zhou Xiao Han plays with her paper shuttlecock.

Students discussing the needs of the orphanage.

Why have one lollipop when you can have two?

The kitchen

More lollipops...

Too cute!

Another great moment.

This might be my favourite group photo.

Note: All these photos were taken by grade 11 students from my school.

The unacceptable reality for orphans

The moment we walk through the entrance, the small dog that’s chained to a pole next to the chicken coop, barks and wags its tail in excitement, while the children flash reluctant grins as they seem to be processing the arrival of 14 high school students and two teachers into their space.

With the stench of manure and urine permeating the room, I try to look at ease rather than grimace in disgust as I stand behind the students examining my environment. In addition to the dog and chickens, the dusty room is clustered with three tables, plastic stools, a raggedy sofa and a small television.

Looking up at the sheet metal that acts as a roof, then over at the huge gap above the entrance, I imagine how awfully difficult winters must be with the damp cool winds gushing in.  On days when it rains heavily, which are extremely common in this region, the room must surely get soaked.

Feelings of sadness and disdain overwhelm me, when a student tells me that the beds are in the back room.  How can the government of Yongchuan allow orphans to live in such an unsanitary and decaying structure?

While the students move around the room greeting the children and handing out lollipops, I remain somewhat shocked, but I try to project a calm demeanour. Though we’ve just arrived, there’s a part of me that wants to leave and return when I’m not filled with so much bitterness for the local authorities and pity for the orphans.

“Hello,” says one girl, appearing curious and apprehensive, as she holds onto a female student’s hand. Wanting to offer her more than an enthusiastic “hi”, I move towards her to shake hands. She immediately hides behind two students,  saying in Mandarin, “I’m afraid of him”. Knowing that she, like many children in China, probably needs more time to get used to my size and skin color, I try engaging a boy who’s sitting at a table with a 16-year-old that I taught last year.

My former student is attempting to play cards with him, but she’s having trouble understanding his utterances. With a lollipop in his mouth and drool sliding down his bottom lip, he hands me five cards and makes more unintelligible sounds.

At another table, volunteers have some of the youngest orphans, one of which has Down syndrome, seated on their laps as students crowd around and play with them. One brave girl with a hunchback approaches and welcomes me with a warm “hello”.

The leaders of my school’s Student Union tell me that there are 15 orphans, some of which have physical and mental disabilities, who reside here. Every month, the city gives the orphanage 200rmb (30$) per child.

“Hello,” says the girl, who ran away from me ten minutes ago, this time she’s holding hands with another orphan.  The two girls tell the group of students, which are encouraging them to attempt an introduction of themselves in English, that my height is frightening. Squatting down, so that the girls are slightly taller than me, I ask them for their names.

Zhou Xiao Han, the girl who was initially terrified of me, and I, strike up a friendly rapport quite quickly. For every question that I ask, she has one or two of her own. The 10-year-old tells me that she’s lived in this home since birth and attends a nearby elementary school.

She proudly shows me the four certificates she’s earned from her remarkable paragraph writing and a shuttlecock she made out of paper that she kicks around like a hacky sack.  Despite her crooked teeth and the scar above her top lip, which I presume is the result of cleft lip and palate surgery, her smile is radiant and genuine.

The entrance of the orphanage and the fancy buildings in the background.

Behind the orphanage stands a chain of recently erected high-rise apartment buildings and across the street from them, the construction of a Walmart is well underway. One member of the Student Union tells me that the woman who runs the orphanage is frustrated with the municipal leaders’ false promises. Apparently, they’ve been promising her a new and improved residence for over three years.

Walmart is coming to Yongchuan

Sadly, I’m told by several students that this isn’t the only orphanage coping with dire circumstances; they claim to know of several others around Yongchuan.

“Don’t take too long to come back,” says Zhou Xiao Han, as she waves goodbye to me from the entrance, where she’s standing with her peers. Her words tug at my heart, making it all the more challenging to walk away.  With water building up in my eyes, I promise to return in two weeks.

The group photo we took before leaving.

To Float on water

I don’t know for certain if he’s drunk, after all, tons of people talk infuriatingly loud on their cell phones and perhaps he has a speech impediment that’s causing him to slur his words.  Granted, he would most likely fail a breathalyzer test, but he’s standing quite effortlessly and just might be able to walk in a straight line. To be frank, it’s his being there rather than his level of intoxication that’s the problem. At this point, I simply want what I was guaranteed: my own compartment.

On the deck bellow, I find the most official looking crew member, hand him my ticket and explain my situation. The man, presumably in his late forties, calmly tells me that the ship doesn’t have single cabins and that the woman who sold me the ticket made a mistake by promising the impossible. Then he utters, with a sympathetic grin, one of my least favourite Chinese expressions: “mei banfa”. Loosely translated, “mei banfa” means there’s nothing that can be done.

Adopting an unattractive but highly effective self-righteous tone, I go on the offensive. I begin by rhetorically asking him if I should have to pay for her mistake which, I’ve labeled as her big fat lie. “If I knew that I’d be sharing a room, I wouldn’t have bought a ticket,” I say, in Mandarin, wearing a frown on my face, “you know it’s not right, that woman cheated me…she cheated the foreigner. So now I need you to fix this problem because this is not acceptable.” Sensing that he now realizes “you banfa” (there’s something that can be done）, I conclude with a firm request to be moved into a vacant cabin.

Once the ship moves out of the dock, beginning the 12-hour passage to Haikou, a jovial female crew member comes to my room with good news. Ecstatic, I say goodbye to the man with the beet red face, who’s probably equally as excited about having his own space, and follow her to the cabin that happens to be right next to the one I refused to spend the night in.

Three evenings later, I and my good friend Chris, who’s been living in Haikou (the capital city of Hainan) for three months, arrive in the tropical city of Sanya. Located in the southernmost tip of the island, it is touted as the Hawaii of China.

When I was first introduced to Sanya, many years ago on a CCTV 5 morning newscast, I couldn’t believe that such beaches and exotic scenery existed in China. Since then, In every weather report I’ve ever seen on Chinese TV, the forecast for Sanya is always sunny with a high of over 25°C.

Rain in Sanya, didn’t seem possible until actual drops of water fall on me while walking back to the hotel after a late but satisfying dinner. Although, I haven’t checked the forecast or asked anybody about tomorrow’s weather, I presume it will be sunny and hot.

It’s a little after seven, when I jump out of bed, walk over to the window and open the curtains to see if my uneducated forecast has come to fruition. It’s drizzling and grey clouds are blocking the tropical sun, but it’s early and at least it’s warm. I reckon the sky will clear up later.

The view from my hotel room in Sanya

Sitting on a wooden beach chair underneath an oversized umbrella, Chris and I are connecting an excerpt from a book on his Sony Reader to a lesson that was learned in the sea, some thirty minutes ago, before the downpour began. “It’s really about letting go,” Chris says, confidently, as he recalls his floating experience, here, at Yalong beach, “you saw me, my eyes were closed, it was like I was sleeping…that was meditation.”

Hard rain at Yalong beach

For people like my oldest sister, who can float for hours, my friend’s discovery might appear to be quite trivial, but for someone like me, it’s an epiphany.

When I was around seven I failed a beginner’s swimming class because I couldn’t do l’étoile (the star). Since then, all my attempts at floating, without a life jacket, have been unsuccessful. Over the years, I’ve jokingly told family and friends that my muscle mass and thick bones prevent me from floating.

So when Chris, who like me has never floated, suddenly declared that he figured out how to do it and gave a demonstration, I felt compelled to give it a shot. Despite the discomfort of salty water streaming up my nose and through my nasal cavities with every botched try, I persisted and finally completed l’étoile.

“That’s deep, man,” I say, reflecting on my friend’s words and our time in the sea while watching the heavy rainfall.

Her name is Yin Tan

Sitting down in her presence, I, almost instantaneously, become aware of my breath. With my eyes closed, I inhale her gentle breeze through my nostrils down into my lower torso causing my belly and ribs to expand. Through my mouth, I slowly exhale, allowing her harmony, strength and magnificence to calm me.

When I open my eyes, I stare at her rise and fall, wondering how much healthier, both mentally and physically, I would be if I was as conscious of my breath as she appears to be of hers. Before long, I’m smiling at her with amazement and gratitude. She, Yin Tan which means Silver Beach, has reminded me of the essence of life.

Yin Tan in the late morning

The sun is blistering and I, rather unwisely, left my baseball cap back in my hotel room. With no shade trees to recline under and my head feeling uncomfortably hot, I’m forced to seek a cooler environment along the boardwalk that’s cluttered with small shops and snack bars charging way too much for goods and services.

The man, who seems to manage the quiet snack bar, wants 15 rmb (a little over 2 bucks) for a refrigerated coconut. I try bargaining the price down to 10 rmb, which is still a higher than usual but at least more reasonable than 15. Watching the beads of sweat race down my face, he knows how badly my body needs the cold milk from the tropical fruit and knows that I’m reluctant to walk away.  He smiles, confidently, telling me to grab a sit while he goes to pick one out for me.

After my expensive, but incredibly sweet and refreshing coconut, I take a series of photos of Yin Tan and then bid adieu to her before the throngs of tourist arrive.  The moment I step unto the No.3 bus, en route to downtown Beihai, I’m greeted with unapologetic gawking and whispers of “lao wai” (the colloquial way of saying foreigner) from many passengers. Yin Tan saw and spoke to the part of me that’s eternal, they, sadly enough, couldn’t get past my appearance.

Back in the city center, where the temperature is in the mid thirties and the sun is unforgiving, I go on attracting the sort of attention that somewhat ruins the blissful experience I had with Yin Tan. I’m stared at when I purchase a bottle of cold water. I’m stared at when I buy bananas and oranges. I’m stared at when I cross the street. Even while eating my first wholesome meal in days, people walking by the small restaurant stand and stare.

If I was in a more outgoing mood, the volume of interest that is being shown to me might not be such a nuisance. After all, I’ve yet to come across anyone in Beihai that has viewed me with contempt, which is more than I can say for some large cities where I often get the sense that a lot of its citizens aren’t exactly thrilled to come across a “lao wai”.

It’s minutes to six, when I board a ferry destined for Haikou, the capital city of Hainan, China’s tropical island. My friend Chris has been living there for the past two months, so I figure since I’m in the neighborhood and I got five days of holidays left, why not visit?  This morning, before going to meet Yin Tan, I decided to pass by the harbour and buy a ticket for this evening.

The ferry that will take me from Beihai to Haikou

Considering the afternoon I’ve been having in the spotlight, I’m looking forward to spending the next 12 hours traversing the Gulf of Tonkin in my private cabin. I can get some reading done, write a journal entry and then fall asleep to the sounds of the sea.

Entering the small cabin, I’m puzzled by his presence. What is he doing here? I ask myself. In Mandarin, I tell him that the woman at the ticket office said that I would be alone in my compartment. With his face beet red and his breath smelling of beer, he shows me his ticket and I show him mine. According to the information on the tickets, he and I are supposed to share the tiny space.

(To be continued…)

In Beihai to meet her

The sun is still hours away from lighting up the dark skies of the southeastern city of Beihai when I step off the coach. The eight hour overnight voyage from Guangzhou is over and now I’m surrounded by taxi and motorized rickshaw drivers, better known as tuk tuk drivers, offering to take me to my accommodations. Despite not having showered in almost 48 hours and being sleep deprived, I’m surprisingly cheerful, settling on a tuk tuk driver that appears equally excited about life.

Within five minutes we arrive at a mid-size hotel. When the driver inquires about vacant rooms, the woman at the front desk and the security guard claim that the hotel can’t accept “wai guo ren”, foreigners. Appalled and slightly angry, I shout “fangpi”, which literally means to fart but used in this context translates as rubbish or nonsense, then tell them that during my seven years in China I have never been denied a hotel room. Less than ten minutes later, I’m turned away from another hotel. Furious, I begin ranting about leaving Beihai immediately.

On our way to a third hotel, the tuk tuk driver tries to calm me down by repeating what he said after I was rejected from the first hotel; “There are some places that the government doesn’t deem safe for foreigners,” he says, with a heavy southern accent that makes his Mandarin hard for me to comprehend,  “and therefore those places would be punished if they allowed foreigners to stay there”.

The woman behind the front desk of the third establishment tells us that there are no rooms available because  two tour groups are arriving later this morning. Naturally, I don’t believe her and accuse her of refusing to accept my business because I’m a “wai guo ren”. Climbing back into the tuk tuk, I tell the driver “Beihai feichang bu hao” (Beihai is very bad). Understanding my frustration, he assures me that we’ll find a room.

With the early morning winds blowing in my face as the driver speeds around the wide deserted streets looking for a hotel, images of my trip to the Egyptian city of Siwa emerge in my head.

I entered Siwa on an overnight bus from Alexandria about a half an hour before the break of dawn and similar to Beihai I was unable to find a hotel or hostel room. Much to my discomfort, I ended up camping out in front of a mosque for what felt like an eternity (it was cold and I was under-dressed), waiting for the oasis city to awake.

Granted, I could have had a much smoother arrival and avoided the chilly winds from the desert if I had only booked my accommodations in advance, but that would have required a bit of planning; something I purposely do very little of when I’m journeying. For there’s something wonderfully imperfect about traveling without a fixed itinerary.  That morning in Siwa, while flirting with homelessness, I experienced one of the most splendid sunrises and befriended an extremely kind donkey-drawn cart driver.

As the tuk tuk driver pulls up to the entrance of another establishment, I brace myself for more rejection. There’s certainly a 24-hour MacDonald’s in this city and if not that park we passed a few moments ago had benches that I could recline on.

Fortunately, this decrepit hotel, which seems like the sort of place that offers hourly rates, accepts “wei guo ren” and has available rooms. On the elevator ride up to the seventh floor, all I can think about is the cleansing power of hot water and soap. It’s Monday morning, I’ve been on the road since Saturday afternoon with the same clothes and after a stuffy 20-hour train ride from Chongqing, Guangzhou was sweltering , causing me to perspire from every pore on my body.

After a long shower and 45 minutes of writing in my journal, with heavy eyelids, I finally give my body what it’s requesting: sleep.

Three hours later, I’m awake, excited about my date with a Beihai treasure. I’ve traveled far to commune with her; hopefully I’m not expecting more than she’s capable of sharing.

(To be continued…)

Obsessing over the World Cup

World Cup poster outside of a night club here in Yongchuan.

To say that I’ve been casually following the World Cup would be a huge understatement. Watching at least two and sometimes three games a day, reading match recaps along with stories related to the tournament and discussing them with friends and colleagues, the World Cup as undoubtedly taken over my life.

I’ve watched more football games (considering football is what the world calls soccer, it’s time I do the same) in the past 13 days than I have since the 2006 World Cup in Germany. The characters of the latest novel I’m drafting have been neglected, the book on modern philosophy that I was reading hasn’t been cracked open and thoughts outside of football have difficulty competing with those connected to the World Cup. Even as I sit in my study writing this piece, my mind is thinking about France’s must win game against South Africa which starts at 10pm (an hour from now).

Bags have developed underneath my eyes and I’m constantly yawning, yet I have trouble resisting the 2am match especially when powerhouses like Brazil, Spain and Argentina are playing (the problem with watching the 2am game is that it doesn’t finish until 4 and I get up for work at 7, thank goodness it’s the end of the school year and I don’t have to do too much actual teaching).

I've watched many games on my tiny laptop.

After a night of World Cup action, I crash on this futon that faces my laptop...I haven't slept on my bed in almost two weeks.

If the numbers of a recent poll conducted by Zhaopin.com (one of China’s largest HR service provider) are correct, I’m far from being the only one making the World Cup a priority in every day life. Close to 45 percent of 2 357 employees surveyed, are putting the World Cup ahead of work and 23.8 percent said they would take short holidays during the period from June 11 to July 12 (the World Cup ends on July 11). Almost 3 percent claimed to be ready to quit their jobs in order to fully enjoy the world’s most popular sporting event.

An editor of a Wuhan-based sports website, demonstrates his passion for the World Cup by holding up a sign that reads: "I will quit my job to watch the World Cup."

In a country where football is equally if not more popular than basketball (at my school, the overwhelming majority of male and female students prefer to play football), coverage of the World Cup is a big draw. According to FIFA, the world governing football body, China recorded the largest television audience in the world for the opening two days with an average 24 million viewers per game (unfortunately there are no reliable estimates on the number of Chinese watching the World Cup online, on cell phones or in public places such as restaurants, bars and parks).

Across China, World Cup enthusiasts have been rushing to sports stores in order to purchase any and everything related to it (people are paying around 150$ for an official World Cup football, but considering this is China, the world’s capital of fake products, one has to wonder if the ball is authentic).

Customers at a sports store surveying World Cup merchandise

Shopping websites such as Taobao.com have been enjoying a surge in football jersey sells. Fakes cost 50 yuan (7$) and authentic ones go for 1499 yuan (220$). Celebratory items such as the vuvuzela (about 90 percent of the vuvuzelas blown by soccer fans during the 2010 FIFA World Cup are made in China) and wigs (yes, wigs) have also been highly sought after online.

A Chinese fan holding a vuvuzela.

A Chinese World Cup fan wearing a wig.

“From January to May, the sales of wigs increased by one third compared with the same period last year. Most of the sales are to soccer fans,” wig seller Yang Bangyin, was quoted as saying in the China Daily.

Unfortunately, additional instances of World Cup fever in China will have to wait until another time. With kick-off fast approaching, I need to throw on my France T-shirt (yes, I’m supporting a dysfunctional team, what I can say I’m a fan of Thierry Henry, let’s just hope the coach plays him tonight) and make my way down by the river to watch the game at a restaurant. Clearly, I need to regain some control over my life, when does the World Cup end again?

Shawn, a colleague, and I watching the France/South-Africa game...it was not pretty.

I am Ghanaian

The title of this piece has nothing to do with the Black Stars (Ghana’s national soccer team) World Cup victory over Serbia the other night and everything to do with a medical clinic in Chongqing that refused to believe that I’m Canadian.

To be fair, it certainly wasn’t the entire clinic that doubted my nationality. All I know is that the woman behind the reception counter made it obvious that she didn’t believe I’m Canadian. This despite her having my passport in hand and hearing me repeat “Jianada” , which means Canada in Mandarin (at one point during our brief exchange the 40-something-year-old looking woman even asked in broken English,  “you from Canada?”).

Walking away from the counter I told my two colleagues, both of whom are Canadians of Chinese descent, that we blew the women’s mind. “You know to her only white people live in Canada,” I said, chuckling, “we just confused the hell out of her.” (The woman asked my colleagues several times if they were really Canadian.)

Although, the woman’s disbelief in my country of origin was blatant, I didn’t think she or anyone else in the clinic would type a new nationality into my file.

(If you haven’t read my post “Experiencing Cultural diversity in China”, you might want to go and check it out.  In it, I point out that during my seven years in China many of the locals have a tough time accepting that I and other non-whites are Canadian.)

On Monday morning, Liu Qiang (the Canadian staff at my school call her Nicole, which is her English name),  the principal’s secretary who also runs the foreign affairs department, told  me that she received my health certificate (a document needed to renew my residence permit that expires in August) but said my  blood type wasn’t included in the results  (after the physical examination on Saturday, which included a blood test, I asked her if she could check my blood type once she was given the one-page results from the clinic. Yes, I’m one of those people that doesn’t know his blood type).

“But it’s very good that you asked me to look for it,” Liu Qiang said, smiling, “because there was a mistake on your certificate.” Standing up from her desk, she pulled out my health certificate from a file cabinet and said, “it said here that your nationality was Ghana”. (Liu Qiang wouldn’t have noticed the error if I hadn’t inquired about my blood type which led her to peruse my results and the health certificate.)

“Ghana? Where did they get that from?” I asked. The secretary was just as puzzled by the nationality the clinic gave me as I was. After all, I wrote, on the registration form that I was from Canada.  She suggested that maybe when I said “Jianada”, the woman heard “Jiana”, which is Ghana. While I playfully added that perhaps the clinic knows something about my family lineage that I don’t. I later wondered if she had seen the Ghanaian soccer team and thought I resembled some of the players.

Either way for almost a day, I was, according to my health certificate, Ghanaian. Liu Qiang went back to the clinic on Sunday and had them issue a new one with my actual nationality. Oddly enough, I went from being Ghanaian to Canadian without providing the clinic with my passport or any other piece of identification.

Considering the Black Stars are the only African team with a winning record at the World Cup and Canada is, well, absent, maybe that woman behind the counter was doing me a favor by making me Ghanaian.

Ghana's National Soccer Team aka the Black Stars

Under “gaokao” pressure

Students writing the "gaokao". June 7, 2010 in Guizhou.

It’s arguably the world’s most difficult national college entrance exam. Across China the test is seen as key to social mobility. To put it simply, the “gaokao”, which literally means “tall test”, is considered the most important exam a Chinese student will ever write (the gaokao is written simultaneously around China once a year. It’s graded on a 0-750 point scale. Above 500 points generally secures a spot at a college or university. To get into the country’s top universities  scores need to be extremely high).

“It’s just so hard because the teachers and parents always push us [students]”  said Ma Ying, a Beijing native who’s  studying in France. Ma wrote the gaokao in 2000 and graduated from the University of International Business and Economics. “I remember I don’t have time to think about other things, just study from 8 to 5 every day for 3 or 4 months.”

Parents waiting for students to finish the "gaokao" in Shanghai.

In the weeks leading up to the two-day test, cities enact temporary policies designed to create a better study environment for the millions registered to take the test. To reduce noise pollution, Beijing has banned drivers from honking and  night shifts at construction sites.  A few cities have ordered internet cafes to be closed during this period (internet cafes are possibly the most popular place for high school students to hang out).

Last week, a newspaper in Shandong province ran a story about the growing number students going to hospitals complaining about being stressed out over the upcoming gaokao. One student was quoted as saying that his hands shake whenever he thinks about the examination.

According to a survey jointly conducted by Sina.com (the largest Chinese language infotainment web portal) and consulting company MyCOS, released in May,  75 per cent of senior high school students felt that they were under great pressure from February to April, and more than 63 per cent of parents were also stressed out.

Sadly, every year at around this time, stories of students committing suicide emerge. This disturbing pattern has continued in 2010; today several Chinese newspapers reported that three gaokao takers ended their lives earlier this week (in an article from the Hindustan Times, Geng Shen, a researcher with the Beijing Academy of Educational Sciences,  said the following: “Society should be blamed for the deaths, as the evaluation of a person’s worth is wrong. Some professions and professionals are looked down upon by society, and parents want their children to become public servants, the rich or celebrities, which will win respect from society”).

“When I did it only one out of every ten students in my province was able to get into a university,” said Luo Wei, who took the test in 1992 and was later admitted to the nationally recognized  Sichuan Normal University. “The percentage [of students that get into a college or university] is much higher nowadays,” added the 35-year-old news editor for the Chengdu Economic Daily.

The establishment of new institutions of higher education and existing ones boosting enrollment by as much as 30% every year along with  a reduction in the amount of individuals writing the exam, gives this year’s gaokao takers a more favorable chance of being admitted to a college or university than ever before (the drop in the number of students registering for the gaokao can be attributed to the shrinking under 21 demographic which is largely due to the one-child policy. Also an increasing number of students are choosing to study abroad and therefore skip the exam).

According to the Chinese Ministry of Education, more than 9.57 million students will compete against each other for 6.57 million university and college places during this year’s examination process.

Nationwide enrollment is at 68.7 percent, a 7 percent increase from last year, and in some cities and provinces it’s higher. For instance, in Beijing it’s likely that 85% of 2010 gaokao takers will earn a college or university spot.

Evidently these stats do little to remove the pressure that comes with the gaokao. Pressure that many Chinese believe needs to be alleviated. Yet, bearing in mind that the “tall test” is somewhat of a landmark in China’s education system any changes to its current form might be a tall order.

Students writing the "gaokao" hold up a banner.