“Smelziko,” he called it.
We dodged traffic down the road and observed the Chinese reactions to us. By now we were used to the fact that we draw lots of attention. Sometimes the Chinese men stare at us with such skepticism, even disdain, that you feel the need to abandon the area before you end up being the victim of a B rated kung fu ass kicking. Others laugh and patronize you, saying “Hello,” as if to point out, “Look, you’re not Chinese.” Others look bewildered when they see you, as if you’re a Martian with a giraffe sticking out of the top of your head. However, many genuinely smile at you and are perhaps even more curious about our lives as we are about theirs.
We ran along the modern and pleasant boardwalk of Shazikou. It stretches a couple miles around the Qingdao bedroom community’s bay. A few people fish off the edge to pass the time, others chat with their sweethearts.
Farther down the boardwalk lies the Shazikou fishing village. In the afternoon, crusty and hardworking fishermen spread their nets along the boardwalk to fix tears. Others sell their day’s catches: palm-sized flounders, eels, shrimp, crayfish, squid and octopus. Dogs pick up fish guts that slick the smooth granite path.
You can’t help but notice the clash between money, modernity and the coming Olympics against an old and humble way of life here. Once the boardwalk reaches the far end of bay, everything feels of the old fishing village, except for the boardwalk itself. While the fishermen use the boardwalk to sell their goods and fix their nets, and even tie hundreds of their fishing boats to it, the challenge the boardwalk symbolizes is starkly evident. Just inches from the multi-million dollar project sit villagers’ brick shacks and houses that will soon be replaced by condos and park benches. Where the fishermen will go, I haven’t yet figured out.
At one point towards the end, the boardwalk stops abruptly. Only the boardwalk railing exists. The brick walls of a few fishermen’s houses halt the path’s progress. I don’t know why. The rest of the boardwalk continues 100 feet beyond. To cross the gap, you must take turns on the railing with those coming the opposite way.
Seabass and I snaked through the crowded impromptu fish market on the boardwalk. Feeling gung-ho, Seabass demanded we climb a hill that rises out of the fishing village. I was game. The view obviously would be excellent and the climb itself looked to be a worthy challenge.
It turns out we had to be more creative during the climb than we anticipated. Large, but scalable rocks and cliffs peppered the hillside with leafy shrubs and pine trees in between them. We couldn’t find a trail, so we pushed through the bushes and rockclimbed the rounded granite boulders. A few parts were riskier than what was prudent, but this also made the ascent interesting. At one point, while scaling a 50 foot cliff ban, a gigantic wasp, the size of my thumb, emerged from a boulder crevice and stung Seabass in the neck. Understandably, he panicked and became an uber-mountaineer, rushing his way to the top without concern of bramble or a bad fall.
Seabass played the tough guy and said we should keep going. It was better him than me because I would have said the hell with it and gone home if I got stung. I’m mildly allergic. When I get stung I swell up like Baryshnikov’s crotch.
Finally, we reached the hilltop and found ourselves looking down onto China’s nuclear submarine base. A couple of the behemoths were docked below us. More interestingly, a watery grotto was carved into the opposite end of the bay. Submarines could disappear beneath the mountainous peninsula. Perhaps the Chinese build the subs in there, I don’t know. Paranoid, we debated whether we should take a photo. We did, and then high-tailed it back down the hill.
We walked through a different valley, this time following a trail. We passed some humble vegetable and fruit farms, bought a couple apples from some locals and returned to the main road toward Shazikou. The day, as far as we were concerned was done. We had to work the next day.
I was a few paces ahead of Seabass when we again passed the fishing boats along the boardwalk. I glimpsed down a set of steps where about 10 of the boats were moored. There, on the bow of one of these wooden vessels, sat four fishermen around a bowl of fish stew.
“Hello!” called one of the fishermen up to me.
At first, I thought it would be best to just offer a wave of recognition and then quickly move on. But my curiosity got the better of me and I turned and said hello back.
“Come!” said the same man in English.
I hesitated.
“Come!” he repeated. “Eat!”
I approached cautiously wondering if what I was doing was a good idea. But the request seemed sincere, so I gathered up my courage and stood before the bow of the boat. Seabass caught up to me and was just as curious to see what might happen.
The gap between the bow and the boardwalk was about four feet. You had little room for error, as your foothold was a foot wide log. A loss of balance would send you 20 feet down to mud and God knows what, because it was low tide.
Seabass and I looked at each other and skeptically back at the gap. The fishermen sat their watching us unemotionally, perhaps wondering what our problem was.
I had no desire for a long fall or a hard landing in the mud. One of the most distressing things about the locals here is their indifference toward their environment. Oil, trash, sewage — you name it — they will simply throw it into the water. This makes the mud a toxic goop.
I mustered the courage for the gap and took a step of faith. I made it. Seabass followed. We sighed in relief and then turned to our hosts.
“Sit, sit,” said the same fisherman. Da-Lei was his name. We were on his forty-foot, log boat which he had built with his own two hands. Da-Lei had broad, strong shoulders and a head like a globe. His face was leathered and reddish brown from years at sun and sea. He was barefoot. His pants were greasy and oil-stained and his fly was broken. In fact, many fishermen have broken flies, and depend on belts or rope to hold their tattered pants up.
Immediately, a foot long octopus dangling between chopsticks was thrust beneath my nose. I took a deep breath and engulfed the bulbous mantle, the tentacles wiggling past my chin. Seabass laughed at me.
Da-Lei lit us a couple heavy cigarettes and we smoked them despite the fact we never smoke.
Da-Gam, another fisherman with a military haircut but a friendly face and smile, cracked open two bottles of Laoshan Beer with his molars and handed them to us. Also with us sat Da-Liu, a fifty-year-old that dives into the Yellow Sea to earn his keep.
Deja vu. Just like those at the Qingdao International Beer Festival, these fishermen insisted that we drink heavily and quickly. Time ticked by and we soon we were drunk and boisterous.
Da-Lei, a combative yet friendly junk boat captain, eyed me speculatively and then broke into laughter. Our communication was limited, but I spoke more broken Chinese than he did broken English. Seabass and I offered a few phrases and questions as best we could.
“Da-wei,” Da-Lei said my Chinese name and slapped me on the back. “You’re my friend. Chinese justice. I got your back.”
Da-Gam grumbled and shook his head. Apparently, he and Da-Lei had come to blows the other day, but were still friends. Such is the way of their friendships, they explained. They depend on each other for safety of limb and life every time they brave the sea. They also butt heads. I think I understood Da-Lei, but also asked why fight in the first place.
“Weishenme da jia?” or “Why fight?” I slurred.
“Chinese justice,” Da-Lei answered. “I got your back.”
Our labored conversations would become tense at times, but would immediately pacify with a hearty “Ganbey!” Seabass especially felt a tension between him and Da-Lei, but things were ultimately okay between all of us. Da-Lei did ‘confiscate’ 50 Yuan that I had dropped, but after all the beer we drank and the food we ate, including a bowl of tasty crayfish, the price was fair and I had no desire to start any trouble. Truly, we were laughing more than anything. The tall bottles of beer clinked often and disappeared quickly.
Into the third hour of heavy drinking, communication would occasionally halt altogether. Everyone would become pensive. A neon rainbow — the lights of the fishing village’s one nice hotel — splayed across the remainder of the glassy water being sucked out by the tide. Giants worked against the wall of a building across the waterway. They were the shadows of fishermen preparing their boats for another workday.
Our next conversation steered toward women. Da-Lei promised us beautiful Chinese girls. Seabass and I are both in relationships, but we nodded, thinking it was time to be heading home anyway. It was an excuse to leave. We told him we would go with him for a beer in the town.
Seabass and I said our good-byes to Da-Gam and Da-Liu, all of us swaying like drunken sailors.
With Da-Lei, we abandoned the ship and wandered through the dark along the boardwalk. Along they way, I decided to take a detour down a flight of steps. At the bottom, there looked to be a couple stepping stones to skip across. I would end up at the opposing steps which ascend back up to the boardwalk.
The leap looked no more difficult than when Seabass and I boarded the fishing boat. I had taken the step of faith earlier and walked away unscathed, why would this time be different?
One…two…three…leap!
Shit.
My foot was shin-deep in the mud.
Think Brusie, I told myself, not quite believing what had happened…I leapt again to get across.
Oh no. Now, my other foot was shin-deep in mud and my shoe was gone from the first misstep.
Leap again!
There went my other shoe. I was shoeless.
“I lost my shoes,” I hollered up to Seabass.
“What?”
“I lost my shoes in the mud. I’ll try and get them.”
I teetered as I squatted down. I could make out through the darkness the hole wherein I lost my second shoe. I reached down and grabbed the tongue and pulled. The suction the mud had on my shoe would make a porn star jealous. I pulled harder but the mud pulled back and I fell in.
“Son of a bitch!” I cursed. Then, in spite of myself, I burst into laughter. Just because you stop drinking doesn’t mean you stop getting drunk. At this point I was on the downward slide toward booze oblivion.
In shock, I lifted myself out of the goop and darted up the stairs. There I assessed the damage. The mud, which was damn near pure black oil, covered the left side of my body. Almost worse, I was no longer just smelling Smelziko, I was Smelziko.
I scooped several gobs of the muck from my body and then ripped my shirt, shorts and socks off. There I stood, down to my boxers, in the middle of the boardwalk.
“Let’s go over there,” suggested Seabass, pointing toward the street lights.
“I know, I’ll run,” I said. With an oily ass, off I pranced.
If Seabass and I thought we were getting stares before, now we set a completely new standard. As far as I could tell, although things were extremely hazy, we didn’t get a single nasty look. On the contrary, I think the people of Shazikou on the street that night never quite believed what they saw. If only they could have blinked, then obviously this retarded, gangly, naked, oil rich apparition would have vanished and life would go on as if nothing had ever happened.
Da-Lei became fatherly and sympathetic to his stupidest of two American children. He guided me to a dirt side road and took me into a barbershop. There, two young women stepped out of the way as Da-Lei explained I needed a tub of warm water. The girls brought the tub and I assumed it was bath time. I tried to drop my shorts to the screams of the two girls and the protests of Da-Lei. Meanwhile, Seabass, inspired by my self-destruction, grabbed a pair of hair clippers and gave himself a buzz. He ended up with two bald patches on either side of his head. He would discover this the next day.
I washed myself as best I could and thanked the Chinese haircutters for the help. Da-Lei, utterly exhausted, was ready to rid himself of us. We gave each other hugs and went separate ways. Seabass and I sprinted home, me still basically nude. I remember thinking I had to figure out where to find a new pair of running shoes the next day. Miraculously, I managed not to hurt my bare feet during the run.
When we arrived back at the school compound, our destructive momentum was still in full swing. I jumped into the school's pool and lost my shorts. Brendan followed with a flip and then we ran inside. It was only then that I saw the clock. It was only about 9:30 at night. I thought it was much later. Then I realized I had just exposed my ass to the school while everyone was still up and about. I laughed hysterically and passed out.
