Two and a half hours. One hundred and fifty minutes. Pretty long for a phone call. Damn long for an international phone call. Friggen damn long for an international phone call from your ex-wife.

That is the total length of conversation that I had with my ex last night.

In the surreal world of separation, divorce and new relationships, I guess a two and a half hour conversation is not that odd. But this was a conversation between people who have experienced deep hurt in various ways and who often are very angry at each other. I don’t want to analyse it too much, because as it is I think of it as a pleasant experience.

In fact, today I was floating. The morning started rather early as I had classes first thing, and the Shiyan winter weather is surprising me every day. The futuristic looking date-time-clock-thermometer-barometer that sits at the school gate was indicating a chili start of 10 degrees centigrade this morning. I thought it was lying then already.

But, I felt very, very chirpy. It could be euphoric delusion resulting from a lack of sleep, as I went to bed at 3 am last night, following two cups of illegally strong Italian Coffee earlier the day. Nevertheless, I felt good, my students were eager to learn (or perhaps, more delusion), my classes were exceptionally well timed, the kids were cute, the teachers were beautiful, even lunch consisted of gourmet food.

So the theory is that it was because of this conversation with my ex-wife. It wasn’t all smooth mind you, and there were no sweet talk of trying again, or even I’m so great, you’re so great, why didn’t it work. It was in fact a gut-wrenching trip down memory lane and it started with a bit of a cat-fight, but calmed and panned out nicely. We did also address some issues which are, to be polite, sensitive, but yet the conversation survived.

On any other day the end of the conversation would have been abrupt, an event of either party disconnecting the call following a list of expletives banned by various Governments and prohibited in the telecom’s service agreement. But not this time.

Like actual adults, we took turns to listen to the other’s case, and stated our own. Did we come to an agreement? No. But at the this stage of the relationship you know you don’t agree, now it’s just about understanding why. And boy, are there a lot of why’s.

So in analysing it (after I said I didn’t want to), I think the reason for my happiness is that we managed a conversation in which some understanding were gained on each other’s perspectives. And if for nothing else, it will help build the relationship that is necessitated by the willful co-operation we have towards raising our son in as normal circumstances as possible.

Today I think I was floating on hope. Before, I felt there was no hope for a normal relationship with my Ex. But I guess we both need time. When I left initially it shocked her, when she served me with the divorced it shocked me, and the two events were several months apart.

Divorce is messy, even when it isn’t. I wish I could do it over; I would avoid divorce, perhaps marriage, at all costs.

I’m having about as much trouble sleeping as I do blogging. Not that I don’t have anything to blog about, I have tons. And not like I’m not dead tired and sleepy at night, I am. But my mind seems mis-aligned, and I cannot focus on the task at hand. There are just too many uncatagorised things floating around in my mind.

The latest uncatagorised item is from last night. My ex phoned from Malaysia and asked for my little boy Jarrod to come stay with me for a bit. I’m elated, I look forward to having him here as I think about him constantly. And with all the cute kids running around here, it’s very difficult to not think of him, because I see something if him in everyone.

But with this news comes a whole new set of challenges. Money to bring him and his mother over (he’s 2.5 years old, can’t exactly fly on his own), visa arrangements for him to stay with me, finding out about day-care facilities for during the day when I have class, and also getting my evening classes moved to the morning.

On a selfish note I consider what this will do to my free time, my time off, when I technically have to recover from the kids I have taught. But to be with my boy I’m willing to sacrifice limbs, I think nothing about ‘free time’.

Not all that difficult, the challenges, but it will take a bit of co-ordination to get all the info in a timely fashion. The money is another bowl of rice all together.

Today, for instance. 10 November, and according to my contract, payday. But because of the president set last month, as well as substantiated claims by King, I know for a fact they will dilly-dally with payment. Also, allegedly the Boss Man went to Wuhan, and he’s also the Money Man, so there is even more reason to doubt payment. I work, I get paid. A simple concept that doesn’t seem too popular in this part of the world.

Another, related, problem is my passport. I don’t have it. It’s lying at the police station, gathering dust no doubt. Why? Because last month when I had to get my medical test done in Wuhan, we got the visa extended without the medical report, which is now in the Foreign Affairs Office in Wuhan, where it has been a full month. The police issued the visa, but retained my passport until they receive the original medical cert.

Yes, it could have been mailed here, it would have taken 3 days, maybe; and it would have all been sorted out. It could have. If anybody bothered. But the ‘foreign liaison’ person here at our school was, to put it nicely, inept. Nothing (give him some credit, very little) ever got done by him, but nothing (no credit here) ever got done on time. But his position has been re-assigned to somebody who at least got my broken bathroom window (it was like that when I got here, honest) fixed within 24 hours of the request, so I’m hopeful about her abilities. Yes, her. Women should rule the world, it would be a much better place.

Now apparently the Boss Man went to Wuhan on some other business and will bring back the medical cert which will enable the release of my passport. Yah! But as ‘payment’ it looks like I have to forfeit the timely transfer of my salary. Hey, you gotta give up something.

I’m not moaning about stuff that I want that are unreasonable, or a ‘foreign attitude of superiority’. I’m fighting for things which were the basis of me traveling here all the way from South Africa and then when I got here, it was said – oh no, sorry – that was wrong. And it seems, the more I teach the more they try to find ways to not pay me.

We (The King and I) get paid maybe 4 times more than the local teachers, which in that respect doesn’t make us too popular comes payday. I’ve heard rumors that the foreign teachers get paid more than the Head Master, the Boss Man. I also have a sneaky suspicion that when payday rolls around, the rumour gets spread that the local teacher do not get paid because there is no money after paying the foreign teachers.

The vibe is obvious, and you can tell the way the local teachers stop trying to talk to you. Usually they make a small effort, but around this time of the month, all communications just stop and it’s as if you become invisible. Of course, these are all just conspiracy theories and can not be proven by anything substantial. But local teachers also do not get paid on time, and the drop in morale is tangible.

Sigh.

But when I think I will enter the class and be less enthusiastic because I didn’t get paid and have troubles with my employers, the kids bamboozle me.

They go absolutely ape when I enter the class, and they get more eager to learn every day. And when the ones who can’t really speak English try really hard and pick up a new word that they use the next time they pass me on the grounds, it really makes it all worth while.

I think that’s why, amidst all the reports of trouble and hardships with the Chinese employers, the teachers still stay, and more come, because it really is rewarding to effectively transfer your knowledge.

And if I have Jarrod with me, well. Then I really I have everything I need. Just find a way.

The double edged sword of blogging. Should you blog if you’re busy, or should you blog when you’re bored?

If you do it when you’re bored, then surely you write garble, dribble, the stuff that you waft about in emails to your mother, ie. things only your family would read.

If you’re busy, when do you blog? There’s just not enough hours in the day, and worse so if you need to sleep, like I do.

So anyway, last week was quite busy, as the absence of posts may testify. The school had a sports meeting, and as such all classes were canceled. They roped in the foreign teachers as display acts. King on his own is a regular attraction, but the two of us together are a full on circus. And when we do some sort of activity people pay good money to enter.

The sports meeting, somehow, was stretched over two days, and it involved a lot of running, some jumping, shooting hoops and, I guess, the Chinese version of junior school hurdles (where the kids duck below the hurdle, instead of jumping it). Upon reflection, the sports meeting was really like a fun day. There is a general drive for everyone to be active, and this aligns to that nicely.

On Friday the teachers participated. I took part in the hurdles, the kangaroo-race and also attempted to shoot a few baskets. I did well in the hurdles, and managed a first place. King was big mouth, but had to suffice eating my dust. The kangaroo-race I won by a hop and the basket shooting was just too embarrassing to talk about.

Saturday the school was deserted, as the sport meeting ended relatively early and everyone went home. Everyone. King, me and the gatekeeper were the only souls roaming the compound. My new friend, the manager of the local Japanese restaurant, saved me for fatal boredom by buzzing me to spell check her new English translated menu.

So I whizzed on over to the Family Pizza restaurant, which is actually the fanciest restaurant I’ve been to in Shiyan, and I consequently like spending time there. Not so much because if it’s Western concept, but because people don’t spit in that restaurant. And yes, they do in others.

Anyway, I met Josh, an America boy from somewhere in Texas also teaching English in some school a bit out of town. I also met Shawn, local guy who would late that night take me to my first Chinese club. And I got introduced to most of the staff, whilst sitting there enjoying my dinner which I received as payment for my hard work. Strangely enough, I remembered all the names of the people I was introduced to. I’m not sure why and wish I knew.

There are 3 Xiao Yar’s at this restaurant, Xiao Lo, Liu Yun and Chun Li. There are many more staff, but I thought I wouldn’t push my luck, so I attempted to remember only these few. Also, Wang, the manager’s full name is Wang Xin Ting.

After making a nuisance of myself, I finally left. On may way I stopped next door at the Japanese restaurant to say goodbye to Tina. She likes hugs. I like to give hugs. It’s a symbiotic relationship.

She walked me to the door and we bumped into 3 Japanese girls who were not on their way to the Japanese Restaurant, but upstairs to eat Chinese. Anyway, their names, I regretfully, cannot remember. The one girl said her Chinese name is something that sounds like Tizo. The second girl’s name sounds like Oats, and the third girl sounds like Oits. I need to meet them again to just double check those names A short conversation and exchange of working locations was followed by good bye’s and another hug from Tina.

I was back home not 5 minutes when Shawn rang to say he’s ready to go out. So an hour later we met in front of the only McDonald’s in Shiyan. Good as a landmark. We rounded the corner and arrived at a thumping establishment with pretty hostesses waiting at the door, accompanied by camo-clad, helmet-wearing, bullet-proof-vest-toting men who I assume are the bouncers.

So up the stairs we went into a relatively small club with music louder than what would be accepted as enjoyable, very fancy lighting, and very few people. So Shawn takes me to a table packed with Westerners. Great, all the way to China to meet Westerners. But they were nice oaks. There is Timo from France, fresh, only been here for over a week. There’s Anton from Bavaria in Germany, student who’s been here for 3 months I think. There was another guy who looked like Robby Williams complete with the tats.

Not sure, but I think his name was Mark. He was way on the other side of the table and no chance of hearing him even if he screamed. So I missed his introduction. He was with a local girl, they looked like a couple. There was another Chinese guy who tried to introduce himself to me, but when he screamed his name right next to my ear, my eardrum reverberated in a way that made his name inaudible.

There weren’t many people dancing, the drinks were prohibitively expensive, and you couldn’t have a conversation. I didn’t quite follow the concept. An hour later the party dispersed and I decided to walk back home, again – for the third time that weekend. What good exercise. And it’s about an hour walk.

At least I was dead tired when I got home and had no trouble sleeping. So, a whole bunch of new people I’ve met this weekend, so I look forward to getting to know them better.

Will keep you updated.

It turns out that the search for the ingredients of the vetkoek recipe that I posted yesterday, was not that difficult. I used the Chinese Language Tools from the other handy post that I made to translate English to Chinese Characters, and then the characters to Pinyin and viola!, instant Chinese.

In my best Chinese handwriting I drew up a shopping list, went to the supermarket where I handed it to one of the ever-so-helpful assistants, and she kindly took me to where all the ingredients could be found; some obvious, some not so obvious.

So I spent the later afternoon improvising proper kitchen utensils in order to create the vetkoek dough. The only hiccup I encountered was the 15g yeast sachet of which I required only 10g, and with nothing market accurately for me to measure with. I used my obviously-not-so-sharp eye to guess the approximate, and applied. The vetkoek result ended up tasting a wee bit yeasty, but it wasn’t that bad.

I also tried a Chinese technique on my vetkoek. They have steamed bread, buns really, inside which they sometime put the filling before they bake it. I tried something similar with this recipe, but I think my filling was too hot still, as it ‘melted’ through the vetkoek dough. After I let the filling cool, some of them worked well, but the filling’s sauce then caused it to become raw again after a while. I guess the filling should be dry for it to work.

The traditional way to eat vetkoek would be to finish the product, and afterwards cut it open to fill it with either just butter, or jam, or whatever you fancy really. A meaty something inside the vetkoek tastes best though.

My next endeavor will be good old pancakes… maybe a variation thereof.

To stop drinking coffee is like quitting smoking – you have to find alternative things to do or you will indulge again out of shear boredom. I have taken to drinking alcohol instead…

I’m just joking (which I say in case my mom discovers this blog). As the weather is getting ever more biting by the day (even though the sun is out today), it calls for pondering what to eat. And in weather such as this, pondering what to eat happens very often indeed.

I have finally equipped myself with most of the tools I might need in the kitchen and thus will attempt to cook. Or bake. No, cook, I don’t have an oven. The challenge will be to find the ingredients for the South African recipe for ‘vetkoek’ that my mom has emailed me. There are a few ingredients I have never seen here, never mind know what they’re called in Chinese.

Here, in an un-presidented second useful post, is the treasured family recipe for ‘vetkoek’. I’ve seen similar things in other countries, but can’t remember what they’re called there or in English. It’s fried… as if my cholesterol can afford it, but delicious (aren’t all friend things?). It literally translates to ‘fat cake’ although, I think the fat refers to it being puffy, rather than fat as in dripping.

Oh, the recipe is Metric. Here’s a handy conversion site if you’re stuck with Imperial: http://www.onlineconversion.com/cooking_volume.htm.

• 250ml luke warm milk
• 250ml luke warm water
• 50ml butter
• 25ml white sugar
• 1 egg
• 1600ml flour
• 10g dry instant yeast
• 5ml salt
• oil (for frying)

Do this:
Mix the milk, water, butter and sugar together.
Once the butter has melted, add and beat the egg.

(As I don’t have proper tools, I heated the mix ever so slightly to encourage the butter to melt).
Separately mix the flour, yeast and salt.
Add it all together and mix until a smooth, elastic dough is formed. Add more flour if its too messy.
Prepare a large mixing bowl and smear with a thin layer of oil.
Place the dough in the bowl, and flip it over so that the oily side is facing up.
Cover with a cloth and stash in a warm place until it has expanded about twice its original size.
Lay the dough flat on a surface coated with flour, and roll and kneed until flat and about 1cm thick.
Keep some flour handy, it might still be sticky.
Cut in circles (not too big), or tear off clumps and roll in balls, and fry in hot, but not too hot, oil.

Make sure to flip it regularly initially so that it can heat even all around and not just burn.
Drain excess oil on a paper towel. Cut open and stuff with your favourite filling. Jam (jellie) works well, or minced meat stew prepared to taste will do nicely.

Added after:I tried to put filling inside the ball before frying it, but firstly, my filling was too hot and it melted through the dough, and secondly there was too much sauce with the filling which prevented the dough from being cooked propperly.

It should work though, but you need to use cold, dry filling instead.

And that’s it. Now to go find those ingredients.