With a cup of not-so-hot coffee clutched between my two frozen hands to try and extract what little heat I could, I was on the third-floor balcony outside my front door, looking onto the sports field below where the kids were playing in the last, feeble slivers of sun, supervised by a few dedicated parents.

There is a regular following of parents who spend half and hour or so with their children on the school’s field every afternoon before taking them home. This field is one of very few open areas of land that actually has grass-cover that people are allowed to play on.

One particular, little girl, a gymnast gonna-be, receives regular guidance from her ex-gymnast (I think) mom. Her mom is beautiful and hard to miss, even in a crowd and from a far-distant 3rd floor balcony.

Today she wore a white jacket, contrasted starkly by her long, flowing, raven black hair, which cascades down her back and splashes about far beneath on the top part of the rounds of her bum. Her dark hair transported my attention along it’s flow and subconsciously rested my eyes on her curves. For if my attention should flicker or fade, she had perfected a flick of her hair. This action replays before me in slow motion, every time I think of her.

It’s like a butterfly flapping it’s wings before it lets itself be taken by the wind when her head dips slightly down and to the left and then whips up to the right. The ripple trickles down her hair and for a brief, but pleasurable, moment the un-exposed parts of her neck and back are revealed and veiled again as quickly as the butterfly bats its wings. The ripple continues down the length of her hair, drops running down the face of a rock, and shatters at the ends where it wants my attention to be. Where the drops crash on the rocks, my eyes linger.

Her damp-rock coloured pants, made from a fabric which, across the distance I was unable to identify, hugged her curves like a second skin and made my eyes draw along the outlines of where they were now resting. Her bum, full, firm and curvaceous, unlike many Chinese women in this part of the world, held my attention like a shiny rainbow formed in the spray of magnificent waterfall.

Between the vivid brightness of her white jacket and equally white, tall boots, there was really only one area of darkness my eyes needed to explore. It struck me, by contrast of the other mothers around her, how voluptuous her figure really was.

As my fantasy grew and I was reminded of how isolated I’ve been, longing to dance naked underneath that waterfall, a deep guttural sound polluted my river and turned my waterfall gray. I realised that she was emitting this sound and I cringed, as I knew the ritual that would follow.

The guttural sound moved up her throat and reached her mouth. And, as I’ve witnessed on so many pavements, in so many restaurants and on so many buses before, this signified the next stage. The guttural sound now became a hocking, coughing sound, a cat trying to dislodge a large piece of sponge it had swallowed, which absorbed too much moisture and was now thrice it’s original size.

At last the grating agony of the throat cleaning climaxed into a higher pitched, slime-gathering as her cheeks moved inward, her lips pouted and she tightened her stomach muscles, preparing to project the fruits of her labour onto the plants. As she spat with the grace of dog licking its genitals, with it she spat my fantasies. My river became mucky, my waterfall slimy sludge, and the shape of the rocks it was falling on didn’t matter anymore.

With still unpolluted memories flowing through my mind, I rapidly ran in-doors to try and separate myself from this grim reality, but alas, it had been another pleasant ogle-session prematurely terminated by the dreaded Shiyan Hock.

The above account, although slightly dramatised, is an actual event as it happened. No names were mentioned, not to protect the innocent, but because I know no names. Beware the Shiyan Hock. It lies in wait, on any road, on any floor and yes, even restaurant carpets!

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I’ve been meaning to do it for a while, but somehow circumstances just didn’t permit until last night.

Linda is one of maybe 10 Chinese teachers here at the school who teaches English. She is a pretty girl and the fact that she selectively makes eye contact, on purpose or otherwise, intrigues me like a good mystery. We’ve had some superficial conversations before, but we usually meet when she supervises one of my classes.

Like I said before, the Chinese English teachers here are friendly, but very shy to initiate any kind of conversation, and for the rest mostly avoid eye contact for exactly that reason. Having spent 3 years at college studying teaching and English, many are shy of the fact that they cannot speak flawless English.

I’m a (near) native English speaker and my English is not flawless (as the many mistakes in my Blog might testify).

So last night, as I hung over the railing of the balcony, not looking forward to another boring Friday night probably alone or trawling the streets with King, Linda walked past below, looked up and as she saw me asked what I was doing. After stating the obvious I asked her if she’s not going home, as it was already past the time her bus usually picks her up.

I had gone downstairs for a face-to-face and she confirmed that she was on her way, but her bus was late. After the briefest of pauses she asked if I wanted to join her, quickly adding… ‘and King’, so as not to come across as trying to ‘take me home’. I said I’m keen, but I needed to ask King his opinion (then already knowing he might say no, as he’s not the spur-of-the-moment type of guy), so I ran back upstairs and poured my enthusiasm over him in a manner he was unable to refuse. At first, he agreed.

We went through the motions to prepare, ie. go to the ATM to draw an extra 100 Yuan for in case we needed to make a hasty escape (or stay in a hotel). By the time we got back to the school, the bus had arrived and was in fact waiting for us. At the sight of the bus, a rusty, old Jalopy (if you can call a bus that), King got nervous and decided that this outing wasn’t for him after all.

Dragging my feet I went to tell Linda we’re both bailing out, but as she approached me (and there’s something about the way she approach me) I decided I might just go alone. I asked her if it was alright if just I came, as King chickened out (chickin-a-la-king). She hesitated for a clock-cycle of the bus’s old diesel engine, then said it would be fine.

With glee I quickly ran upstairs, grabbed my video camera (I was going as a tourist, after all), contact lens paraphernalia, tooth paste and I swear I grabbed my toothbrush too. Throwing everything in my way-too-big-for-only-an-overnight-trip bag, I bounced downstairs and into the diesel-fume-coughing coach and off we went. By now it was dark and the ride was hair-raising. The bright lights of the oncoming traffic blinded me as I sat halfway back in the bus, and I feared for (had a fear of) the driver.

There were some kids on the bus with us, and as it was an open day here at school, there were one or two parents too. Holding on for dear life as the driver dodged the one on-coming truck after the other on the road dotted with people clad in dark clothing, I thought that if I as a parent knew this is how the bus rocketed through traffic with my children sitting unrestrained on it, I would never let my kids near the bus (or the school) ever again.

Eventually, after seeing plenty of lights and several parts of my life flash before my eyes, we reached our stop. As the bus blasted off under the cover of darkness and a thick plume of diesel fumes, silence fell so hard it startled me. We were in Linda’s neighbourhood.

Walking away from the road, we walked through a new housing-slash-shop development with ample light and a few restaurants still open. The customary 3 to 4 people per outlet (at this time of night, usually all staff) were present as required. As we approached a bridge spanning a river, Linda ran ahead to meet her sister-in-law who came to meet us (her) halfway. As she ran she said ‘oh, I didn’t tell my family you were coming, because I didn’t want them to make too much fuss’.

As we walked across the bridge and along a path which was mostly devoid of light, I inquired as to how big her family is. She said it’s her, her sister-in-law, mom and dad and grandma and brother. Her brother was out stationed in Shiyan, working as a trainee doctor at a hospital, and grandma actually lived next door to them.

Plodding onto a smaller, unsealed road which was even darker than the previous one, the faint light of the dim stars were all we had to guide us (well, me, they knew what they were doing). We approached an old shop lot where a light was shining through a half-open door. Linda announced that this was a clinic and her dad was the resident doctor. We entered and I was introduced, shaking Linda’s dad’s hand with my own half-frozen one.

The clinic was basic. My attention, involuntary of course (not like I was searching for it), was immediately attracted by strings of condoms in glittering packaging, hanging behind the counter and stirred in the breeze so as to refract the dim light in all directions. Let it be known that this visit has no sexual intentions. This morning in the light I noticed the familiar red ribbons on a poster otherwise dotted with Chinese writing, which explained the prominent display of these taboo objects in an otherwise conservative society.

Her sister-in-law prepared to lock-up the clinic while her dad pushed a motorbike inside the shop. I assumed this was the ambulance. We then continued down the path, which branched off onto a yet smaller path which sloped up a hill. I followed their voices concentrating on my footing, as I felt the road becoming ever more uneven. Eventually we reached the top of the hill and thankfully, their home.

Disappointingly, their house was very familiar. Nothing strange on the floor, no funny way of sitting, in fact, nothing unfamiliar except the language. I was disappointed in the sense that I had nothing unusual to report. Their house is big. On the ground floor they have a living room, a dining room and what I assume are 3 bedrooms (the doors were closed). The furniture were all wood and slightly dated. The rooms were dimly lit by the few light-bulbs that were either not blown or had been replaced when it did.

After her dad offered me some rather delicious, heated, home-made rice wine (which I graciously excepted and almost gulped down more for the heat than the taste), we had dinner, to which mom and sis-and-law had added some food as I was the unexpected guest.

Dumplings, meat and veggies of the standard variety. Oh, and chicken’s feet, or “chicken’s hands” as they are called locally, which I’ve never had before. But with my two recent explorations into the world of duck’s feet, I thought, they’re only a quack apart, so why not. It was rather delicious, the feet and the rest of dinner.

After dinner we went upstairs. On the second level, which is a carbon copy of the first, it was as if we’ve climbed the stairs and with it 20 years into the future. On the 2nd floor the furniture is of the soft, modern, padded variety, the floor is laminated wood as apposed to tiles, and it looked significantly newer than downstairs. It was also not as cold as downstairs.

We watched some Chinese soap operas for a while and chatted in between. I saw some of a much younger Linda’s pictures from when she was in college. Her and her family asked me many questions over the course of the night, all of which I was happy to answer, except maybe, the one about my salary. Later on she and her sister-in-law disappeared into one of the bedrooms, and through the door I saw them prepare a bed.

She came back to the living room and said that its her room, but tonight I can sleep there, she will bunk with the sis-in-law. I went to the bathroom at which point discovered the absence of my toothbrush, and opted for smearing some toothpaste on my teeth. It never fooled my mother either. I washed my face in ice cold water, and my feet in warm water which was at the ready in a thermo-flask.

As we said good night, I took with me an old English story book Linda had produced and read several pages of it before I finally felt sleepy enough to attempt sleeping in the cold. Her blankets were nice and heavy, which made them a lot warmer than my light-weight duvet. Her pillow was quite hard, but not as hard as her mattress. I quite liked it though, and apart flipping myself once or twice during the night, I had quite a comfortable rest.

She woke me up early this morning, and I found it easier to get out of bed there than from my own bed. We visited Wu Dang town, close to the gate of Wu Dang Mountain.

The town is not very big and there is nothing really interesting to report, except a very old palace of which I can’t remember the name. It has been severely neglected though, but there was a mystery about the location. A vast expanse, now mostly filled with weeds and burnt-out ruins, once the proud palace (and the term is used very loosely) of a desolate Emperor who had it built in order to spend the rest of life in isolation.

The bus ride back this afternoon was a lot calmer and more comfortable than going there last night. Oh, we paid a brief visit to one of Linda’s friends, a hairdresser, who shaved my head as a favour to her.

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I think I’ve done quite enough moping and moaning and groaning, so today, for a change, I will write about something I haven’t written about in a while. The weather! Zzzz. I know. Just to say, I’m not much bugged by it anymore. So, today is 9 degrees. Who cares. I went winter clothes shopping, armed myself with some woolies, a scarf, warm pants. And what is nicer than warm pants in winter? Hmmm, maybe a pair of nice warm gloves. Yeah, I need a pair of nice warm gloves.

So with the weather off my list of boggles, I turned my attention to my colder-than-fridge apartment. My clothing are literally icy to the touch in the mornings. And after only 2 weeks of moaning and begging my superiors, and acquiring a cold to authenticate my need, I am now the proud owner of a heater.. . one of those you have to run for 2 days to get a result in your apartment, but I’m not complaining.

Another triumph was being able to transfer money back home. Not much, but it’s a start. After applying for my residency permit several moons ago, I had to leave my passport at the Police Station for a while (which is where they issue the permit) and I then struggled with my lethargic and procrastinating-prone superiors to get it back.

Eventually, which is a realistic expectation with most things, they delivered it back and I could start the hunt for transfer. I tried the bank I have an account with, which according to all my logical frames of reference, would be the first place to look. They sent me to their main branch who sent me to a sub branch for ‘foreigners’, only to discover it’s a Western Union outlet and, believe it or not, South Africa doesn’t have Western Union.

I turned to the good old Internet and surfed the Bank of China (the biggest in China and also internationally represented) to see what they could do for me. And true as Bob, there, as plain as Chinese Characters, on their English translated site, it said they could do Demand Drafts and Telegraphic Transfers. Just what I like.

After some effort in translating the words to English and writing down the Chinese characters (at which I am getting increasingly proficient) I headed to the bank of China. After only 6 days, 5 visits and filling out the same form 4 times, I eventually managed to open an account and arrange the money to be transferred to South Africa.

The key is alternatives.

My first statement to the person responsible for arranging the Telegraphic Transfers was that I wanted to send Yuan to South Africa. “No”, he said, “cannot”. They have no means (and very little desire) to change Yuan to South African Rand, and as far as my query was concerned, that was the end of the conversation. So after a brief sigh, I tried again by asking what he could do. So, he said, he could change the Yuan to US Dollars and THAT could be sent to South Africa. Another sigh.

At least that got me started and now, the money is merrily winging its way through the Shiyan branch of the Bank of China and will hopefully soon wing its way to the head office and then from there across the distance to South Africa.

They kindly indicated 5 days, but keeping in mind my standard expectation of “eventually”, I won’t be maxing out my credit card just yet.

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I’m a firm believer in the male hormonal cycle.

How else can you explain this emotional roller coaster I have been riding for the last few weeks (months)? Sometimes I’m riding high, tak tak tak-ing my way to the very summit of the roller coaster, feeling good, looking around, enjoying the view and the relative slow pace of the initial ascend.

Other times, and as suddenly as gravity can pull me from the crest, I descent into the dark and scary depths of emotions, unrestrained by mechanical means and free falling driven only by my own weight. Only to be flung left and right as my emotions go through the twisty-turny bits of the roller coaster before I start to feel good again as I go through to the loop.

At the upper most extreme of the loop things are good, but after so much twisting and turning I feel a bit upside down, so I’m feeling good being at the top, yet I’m confused and can feel something is not quite right. That is where I then go into the next dip of emotional darkness followed by some more rapid direction changes of up and down and, in a state of confusion, some left and right, before eventually my emotions level out and are steady for a while.

I’ve never actually plotted this ride on a calendar, but I’m sure if I did it would come around in roughly 30 days cycles. Each 30 period *cough*, I’m sure, characterised by the all too familiar parabole of the female hormone cycle, lending to the ups and downs, PMT, mood swings, one-minute-sads, one-minute-happies that we as men know, loathe and fear so much.

As the cold of Shiyan is getting too much for me and the temperature alone is getting me down, I have decided that the best thing to do is to keep my head down and work hard towards my goal. To avoid contact for a while, except for the weekly calls to my son. Of course, timed appropriately so as to miss the Ex and thereby establish a thread of minimum contact with her.

This will hopefully get me off my emotional roller coaster, or slow it down at least. I know however, she will contact me, usually when she has some emotional need that for some reason she thinks I can fill. As much as me talking about our past relationship is a que for her NOT to contact me, as much is me not contacting her a queue for her TO contact me. And I know, too, that I will probably fall into that emotional trap every time it comes around.

Sucker for punishment. Sadist. Ass. Me.

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It’s been a tough week. Impatient, short tempered, rude even. All applies to me.

On Thursday, in a frenzy of confusion, or desperation, or due to my inability to control my deepest desires, I wrote the xyf an email and begged for her to take me back. She has not phoned or emailed since, because me broaching this subject is her favourite excuse for not contacting me. Apparently I drive her away. I’m sure she read that in a Cosmo somewhere and is now plugging it for all it’s worth. Or maybe I really do.

I phoned my boy the other night, she picked up. She couldn’t talk to me because she was going out. I knew it was with the new boyfriend who, by the way, I can’t stand. I sometimes, for the benefit of the xyf, say it’s because it’s another man, but really, it’s because it’s this particular guy.

Before I left her city, I was involved with Futsal, and this new boyfriend of hers was a team mate. We weren’t exactly friends, but we had beers together, chats, etc. I always thought he spoke disrespectfully about his girlfriends to his mates and never thought much of him because of that. And then he ends up with the xyf.

The xyf is Malaysian Chinese, and he, like me, is western. I’m jealous of him. When I met the xyf I was in a very fortunate position where the job I had paid in Pounds (and lots of it), which was even more in Malaysia Ringgit. Obviously during the time of courting her before our marriage, it might have appeared that I had a lot of wealth. I had always told her that this was an artificial situation and might end soon. She has always maintained she knew this, even when she said yes to marrying me.

I’m not so sure.

This boyfriend is from the UK, and thus automatically I assume he has lots of money. Stereotype or not. He’s a golf instructor and I’m sure he makes a good living. He takes her out a lot and always pays. Obviously because of the way this makes me feel insecure, it also makes me jealous. And furious.

And then of course she will always find a way to bring him into our conversations. She knows he irritates the shit out of me, yet he always appears in our conversation, even when what we are talking about has nothing do with him. I feel she is trying to hurt me, and in spite of myself, she often succeeds.

The other night in our long phone conversation she said I was too feminine because I’ve never fought for her. Where as Boyfriend will apparently brawl with bouncers thrice his size to defend her honor.

Me, I’m not into physical fighting. I was small at school and bullied, and learned then that running was good for your health as often it would help avoid a beating.

Later as I grew up and become taller than most, I still avoided fighting, because I am a bit of a girl. I hate pain. Besides, in South Africa fighting can get you shot; you never know when your opponent is carrying a gun.

But what she’s actually referring to is when we were still in South Africa and people were saying things about her jealousy, her temper and the way she, on occasion, screamed at me over the phone at work, it’s true, I didn’t defend her then. The reason being because the things they said about her were true. I didn’t blatantly agree, and often said she’s not really like that, or played it down and said I gave her reason to do so. But what they were saying was mostly true. Even so, you might say, I should have defended my wife. Perhaps so. But when she phones at work and screams over the phone, you can’t really lie about what is going on.

So now the new boyfriend apparently fights for her. He grinds me. She’s caught him twice wanting to cheat on her, and they’re still together. Cheating was never one of our issues. Yes, initially in our marriage I surfed porn, for no other reason than that it was a filthy addiction I acquired in my teens after discovering a stash in my dad’s closet.

It was confescated contraban from his days in the police and it was a source of curiousness for me and later became a habbit. With the growth of the Internet I suddenly had more than just a few pictures in a closet. This caused a problem in our relationship twice, the second time she went back to Malaysia, she left me. The first time one of us would walk out on the other.

The other problem of a sexual nature was during that time she was in Malaysia. I went out with a friend of mine and he took me to a strip club. She had this suspicion that I went (why? I still don’t know), and when she asked me straight, wanting to tell the truth to show that it was innocent naughtiness, I admitted that I went. I think she always suspected me of paying for sex that night, because she absolute exploded. It was a rough time for us, and I think she was in Malaysia for a few months. This was after our son had been born. I had to beg and beg for weeks to get her to come back.

But even before we got married she had never trusted me fully. Shortly after we met the first time, there was a lull of about 2 weeks before we met again. That weekend, one of her ex-boyfriends lied about me and said I had left the bar the previous night with a prostitute. Let the record show, that I have never been with a prostitute and have never paid for sex. Regardless, she has always thought that story was true.

Shortly after meeting her, I also went to the Philippines, and a friend and I met two girls in Cebu. They showed us the sights of the city, and in front of one statue we have pictures where we picked them up and posed with them in our arms. They were so small and light it was easy to do. Because of these pictures the xyf have always suspected that I had slept with them, again not true. Geezz, how did I get onto this topic?

Right, cheating. So our problems were never related to cheating, yet, for all my accumulated mistakes, I am now divorced. Now this guy wants to cheat on her, twice, and she apparently doesn’t mind, because they’re still together.

Of course, expanding on the theory that she wants to hurt me, I have a sneaky suspicious that a lot of what she has been telling me has been lies, or half-truths. I don’t know what to believe anymore.

The nastiness in me thinks she is staying with him for the sake of status. She’s now in a very nice position. He provides her with all the luxuries she might like; dinners, massages, trips here and there; cool friends, drinking. Nice life really; and of course, he’s company so she doesn’t have to feel alone. I sound jealous?

On Thursday I had phoned her to speak to my son, and when she said she was going out I was pissed off, because she couldn’t take the time to call my boy to speak to me. He’s only 2.5 years old, and loves cartoons, and from the sounds of it spends his life in front of the TV watching it. Ok, that’s being nasty. He likes cartoons and watches it often, and when someone else wants to watch anything he would cry. And is family would give him his way to make him not cry. The result is that when he’s watching cartoons, nothing can stop him. Not even a call from his dad.

He sometimes says he doesn’t want to talk to me. I take it with his age, but that also makes me sad, because I know he doesn’t remember me that well. I’ve been gone 11 months, and what can he remember? And in those 11 months he has only seen me once, for 10 days.

So, I am also scared that this new boyfriend will take my place. I have nightmares about my son calling this guy dad. I would die.

Because I got pissed off on the phone when she said she was going out, the xyf acted a bit weird the next day and said I should come visit him there. We had already agreed that sending him to China is prohibitively expensive, and not practical. But when she specifically said he cannot come due to me ‘moving around’ I got very upset.

I struggle to see a normal life for me. I struggle to see a normal life for my son.

I have to get used to the idea that she will see other men. I mean, I would like to expect her to mope and dream about me for the rest of her life, and think that I was so wonderful there is no point in dating other men, but that’s just me on an ego trip. I therefore also have to get used to the idea that my boy will meet some of these men, and that one day, one of these men (please God, let it not be this current guy) will marry his mother and spend more time with him than me and will be his role model in life.

My current goal is to gain enough experience and qualifications to be able to work in Malaysia and be as close to him as possible. My contract here in China is until next year July, when I will hopefully have enough of what I need, to try and work there. If not, I think I will do another year in China. Chinese will benefit me if I can speak it fluently. And I have to make an effort there too.

Right, weight on my shoulders; off!

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