Alec Ash - While Were Here: China Stories from a Writers Colony

While Were Here

China stories from a writers colony

Edited by Alec Ash and Tom Pellman

ISBN-13: 978-988-82737-6-8

2015, Earnshaw Books and Contributors

Each Contributor holds the full copyright to their contributions.

Cover photography Yang Zhazha

Cover Design: Coco Huang

LCO000000 LITERARY /COLLECTIONS /General

First printing November 2015

EB074

All rights reserved. No part of this book may be reproduced in material form, by any means, whether graphic, electronic, mechanical or other, including photocopying or information storage, in whole or in part. May not be used to prepare other publications without written permission from the publisher except in the case of brief quotations embodied in critical articles or reviews. For information contact

Published by Earnshaw Books Ltd. (Hong Kong)

For our friends

W E ARE ALL writers, in the stories we tell about ourselves and the world around us. For those of us who came to China, everyone has a tale or ten to spin, whether its at the bar or on a blog. Its hard not to when you live here. Some of those stories are familiar, others a surprise. Most are lost at the bottom of a cocktail, a few end up on the printed page.

To publish stories that would otherwise go untold was the founding philosophy of our writers colony the Anthill (theanthill.org). In the autumn of 2012, there were plenty of China blogs that regurgitated the news, but precious few that posted personal narratives with a sense of story. Tom Pellman joined as fiction editor soon after, expanding the scope of the site to something altogether more literary, and Anthony Tao did the same with poetry. We accepted photography and translations as well, and found a loyal following.

Now, some three years later, there are over a hundred writers in the colony. (Our name comes from the Chinese phrase ant tribe that describes directionless college graduates; foreigner twentysomethings who wind up in China may recognize the clan.) Weve hosted two storytelling events Writers and Rum at Cuju, a Moroccan bistro and rum bar, and Scotch and Stories at the Beijing Bookworm which were both sold out and very boozy. And now, thanks to our publisher Graham Earnshaw, we add the book youre holding in your hands.

While Were Here is an anthology (ant-ology?) of posts from theAnthills three years. Its a mix of narrative non-fiction ever our core and fiction, with a smattering of poetry for good measure. There are 33 contributions, some a single page, others twenty. Most of our writers, like many of our readers, are foreigners in China or ethnic Chinese who grew up overseas. All proceeds from the book will go to The Library Project (library-project.org), a charity that donates books to rural primary schools and orphanages in Asia our small way of giving something back.

The anthology is designed to be dipped into rather than read cover-to-cover, but follows a loosely seasonal structure. We begin with Jonathan Rechtmans spring fling as a foreign model for a charismatic Frenchman (Model Worker, ) before autumn falls.

In winter, Sam Duncan plunges us below zero degrees in Daqing, Chinas oil-rich far north (Ayi and I, ).

There are also fascinating personal reflections by contributors with decades in China under their belt, whether in Chinas jazz scene by David Moser (The Book of Changes, ).

Perhaps the rhythm of the seasons best reflects the cyclical feeling of living in China. Foreigners come and go and come again, as do local friends swept along by the same currents. Some familiar news stories and features reappear in the papers every year. In Beijing, willow catkin pollen blows through the early spring air, and hillocks of cabbage appear in winter just ahead of the first frost. Only the smog endures.

After another few cycles, some of us wont be here anymore. Well have moved back home or onto somewhere new, and all that remains of this moment in China will be the stories we tell of it. Others of us have made China our home, and arent going anywhere (a sequel, Were Still Here, anyone?). Weve long been disabused of the notion that we will ever get this country, let alone capture it in words. In the end its too big a beast, and were just flies resting on its back, witnessing what we can.

Alec Ash
Beijing, October 2015

M Y CAREER as a model started the way all good stories begin: I was walking down the street, minding my own business, when I was propositioned by a slim young Chinese woman with impeccable English, a snazzy white dress, and an attitude to match.

Youre perfect, she said, looking me up and down.

Well, youve only just met me, I said. But youre remarkably perceptive.

She ignored this, frowning. Where are you from?

America, I said. Where are you from?

Again she ignored me. Id like you to call my boss. He is French. I think he would like to meet you. Here is his number, she said, handing me a soap-colored business card. Please give him a call this afternoon. Tell him Angela gave you the card. Will you be in Chengdu for long?

About a month, maybe more.

She frowned again. She actually was quite ugly.

Well, give him a call anyway. This afternoon. His name is Fabien.

And then she left, tossing her hair with a flick of her delicate, imperceptibly hairy wrist.

I bought a popsicle and sat on a bench to study the business card. The back had a snazzy logo with the letters WMA and a website address. The front read Western Modeling Agency and Fabien MarcChief Agent/President/Model, with an office address and phone number. And there, in the lower-right corner, was a full-color head shot of Fabien.

The popsicle trembled in my hand. I sat, unmoving and unaware of time or space, paralyzed by the stunning good looks of the man that gazed back at me. Seductive, knowing, beckoning cobalt eyes and stubble on a finely-sculpted chin, an irresistible come-hither aura projected at unseen women that would surely flock to his tanned, muscled body like iron filings drawn to a man-shaped magnet. This face could capture hearts with but a gaze, induce orgasms with but an expertly boyish wink. This was not a man, no, but a fanciful creation of the divine, a flesh-and-blood tribute to God and GQ.

I pulled out my cell phone and dialed the number on the card.

Two days later, on a hot afternoon downtown, I waited for Fabien at the south gate of Chengdu University. We had arranged to meet there and go back to his office nearby to discuss the business and measure the model. In addition to being a heartthrob, I discovered on the phone that Fabien spoke an adorable brand of pidgin English.

I waited, perspiring heavily in the searing Sichuanese sun. Instead of my regular tank-top and shorts, I had dressed to impress with a pair of heavy black jeans and a button-down collared shirt. I was as uncomfortable as in-laws and sweating like guilt. I looked again at the business card, at Fabiens face, and felt a twinge of panicked excitement, like a high-school sophomore waiting for my prom date. He arrived on a motorcycle.

Blue chopper, white pants, navy shirt, purple shades. Silver chain. Hair gel and cologne. I discovered what the linguists already knew: the word suave is derived from French.

Hello, he said. He looked me up and down as if I were a child, a mouse, an insignificant bug. You are probably the Jon.

I tried to act cool and American. Yeah, I said, pausing to take a James Dean drag on an imaginary cigarette. Youre Fabien, huh?