In Transit

Never play chicken with a Chinese bus driver; this is the lesson I learned on our drive down from Yellow Mountain. I understood why our driver was in a hurry--more trips up and down the mountain meant more money--but I don't think he considered the fact that you can't get paid if your dead, or, for that mater, that a bus full of dead tourists might be bad for business. In addition to trying to set a new land speed record for 1986 minivans, our driver also felt it necessary to pass everything on the road, whether there was oncoming traffic or not. Once, we came within about 3 meters of a head-on collision with a bus. This didn't phase our driver, who seemed intent on giving every one of his passengers a near-death experience, and consequently, a renewed lust for life, having survived the ordeal.
But survive we did, even arriving to our destination early enough to have a tasty lunch of chicken and fried rice before our (much calmer) 4 hour bus ride back to West Lake to catch a train.

Shortly after boarding, we discovered that our 14 hour train ride was actually going to take 24 hours; one full rotation of the planet Earth. This, we were to spend in a dirty, narrow bunk, in a creaky compartment beside the bathroom, within earshot of every hork and flush. It was not very pleasant. But, as luck would have it, the passengers below us (there were 6 bunks to a room, stacked 3 high) got off in the morning, so we at least had a place to sit during the day. Between the reading, eating overpriced fruit, and listening to music, I brought out the hand-gripper I had brought along in order to get a little exercise on these long trips. A Chinese student saw it immediately, climbed down from his bunk, and asked, a little nervously, "How many can you do? I think I can do more. Friendly bet."
I agreed to a bet of 10 yuan (about $1.50) and said he could go first. He took the gripper in hand, and started squeezing it together at great speed. I counted. He kept a good pace until about 30, and then started slowing down. By 40 he had really slowed, and then struggled, and barely managed to make 50. "Fifty" I said, "pretty good." He smiled, rather proud of himself, and handed the gripper over to me. I took it, confident I would beat his score, and did, with a total of 76 repetitions. However, just as I finished, a Chinese businessman who had been sitting in the corridor leaned over and said something to the student, who translated: "He'd like to join, and raise the stakes--50 yuan." (about $7.50)
With only a tinge of doubt, I agreed. He looked about 45, but was probably younger. His fingers were significantly thicker than mine, but I figured, how much time did a Chinese businessman really have to work on his grip strength? He turned out to be pretty strong. The businessman showed little sign of slowing down until he hit 50, but kept on, reaching 60, and eventually, 70, but now he was very red in the face, arm trembling, and teeth gritting against the pain. Somehow, he summoned the strength to go on, heroically beating my score with a total of 82.
I was just about hand over his prize money when a monk emerged, as if from thin air, in the corridor. He had the unmistakable shaved head and orange robe of a Shaolin, and, judging by the look on the faces of the two men in front of me, no one had seen him up until that moment. Without saying a word, the monk presented a 100 yuan bill with his left hand, and reached his right hand out for the gripper. With some reluctance, the businessman handed it over, and set his 100 yuan note on the fold-down table.
The Shaolin began squeezing, with what looked like no effort at all, at a slow and steady pace. It took him 30 seconds to do just 25, and a full minute to reach 50, but on he went, 60...70...80...90--the businessman left at 100.
The Chinese student and I watched, in amazement, as this monk passed 150, 200 repetitions! Finally, (I think more out of boredom than exhaustion) the monk stopped after an astonishing 212 reps, returned the gripper, and gathered his money.
Jokingly, I said to the student that I didn't think monks were allowed to gamble, but, taking this seriously, he translated the comment to the monk, who responded, smiled slightly, and left. After the Shaolin had gone, I asked the student what he said. He told me, "He said: 'It is not gambling, if victory is certain.'"