Return to China

Heathrow, London, 2009.  

I still vividly remember how stressed and exhausted I was while waiting in the airport departure lounge that April day. Fear of the unknown consumed me, and any positive thoughts towards my travel adventure had long evaporated. I forced my breathing to become calmer as I tried to sit quietly and wait for the boarding call for the Beijing flight.

I was no stranger to this departure lounge at Heathrow. Two years earlier, I had been here preparing to fly out to commence my senior gap year in Borneo. I volunteered to work with a couple of wildlife animal charities, predominantly looking after orangutans and other wildlife in the vast Borneo jungles. Living with two different tribes and working with a small group of Western volunteers, we carried out population counts on the rapidly diminishing orangutan populations. I was hugely excited when I set off on my Borneo adventure.

I felt lost when I returned to London after the year-long stint in Borneo. My time there was enchanting, and I immediately began researching how to return to the East. My time with the animal charities had unearthed an inner courage I had no idea I possessed. A “new” me had emerged, and I was damned if I was going to remain in an office in Central London, watching my life slowly tick by.  

Patrick, an acquaintance of mine, suggested I go to China. He had taken a teaching job in Nanchang when China first welcomed visiting workers in the 1980s and loved it. He introduced me to the south-central area of Nanchang, Jiangxi Province and helped me secure a University job teaching English skills. I spent over a year researching all I could about life in China, and in early 2009, full of trepidation, I prepared to set off for the mysterious East.

The constant stream of paperwork and visa applications that China required me to complete made me wonder what I had taken on.  I had only signed up for the last three months of the ongoing University term to see if I could find China appealing, but peculiarly, it now felt as if I was moving to China permanently. I kept telling myself I had nothing to fear and that China was merely a new travel destination - it wasn’t as if I was changing my life! How wrong I was.  

I spent the build-up to leaving for China by assuring friends and acquaintances that there was nothing to fear. I lied cheerfully and said how ordinary it was to work in Nanchang, although internally, I was seriously beginning to fill with doubt. People asked me probing questions about my teaching skills and whether I could teach highly educated Chinese who felt comfortable working up to a twelve-hour day.  I found these rumours inaccurate; Chinese students were the same as any other university student. 

All my British and US friends were massively disappointed with Nanchang as a destination; they would say repeatedly: 

“Oooh, Shanghai”.

“No, Nanchang”.

“Where the hell is Nanchang?”

“I honestly don’t know”, I’d tell them.

At this point, all my friends and acquaintances would freak out.

“You’re going to an area in China that no one has ever heard of!!”

They would attempt to show some interest in Nanchang—but frankly, it wasn’t Shanghai or Beijing. They seemed to believe I’d disappear, never to be heard again. I was so surprised at how brave everyone thought I was.  

So here I was in 2009, sitting in Heathrow Airport, feeling hopelessly ill-prepared for China. I wandered the departure lounge aimlessly and was amazed at how few Chinese people were waiting for the Beijing plane. The only real thing I knew about China was how heavily populated it was, so where were they all?

“Next flight to Beijing. Go to Gate 14” was heard around the departure lounge. I jumped up, but my knees promptly gave way, and I fell back into my chair. As I struggled to stand up again, I whispered, "Pull yourself together,” and followed a crowd of Westerners to the departure gate.  

The British Airways flight completely fooled me. Everything was British. The announcements were in English; the staff were British nationals; the food was international; the movies were modern and all in English. As I looked around the plane, I saw that almost everyone was English.  

“What on earth was I afraid of? This is easy”, as I settled in for the long flight.

I started talking to some fellow passengers on their way to Beijing. They were all on a tourist package tour visiting several of the largest Chinese cities. I basked in their admiration when I explained that I was on my way to work in China. Going on an organised trip to China for fourteen days was good fun, but going to work in a place called Nanchang was beyond comprehension.  

When the plane landed in China, I was required to spend many long hours at Beijing Airport. The Airport was very impressive and had been built for the 2008 Olympic Games, but I was surprised by how few Western outlets there were. I was expecting Starbucks and McDonald's and was shocked that only an overabundance of Chinese refreshment outlets were available. The realisation that I was indeed in China began to sink in, and despite being in a large modern airport, I was already totally out of my depth. None of the food on sale looked appealing, and I needed help finding a coffee outlet. 

I couldn’t wait to be back on my perceived safety of a plane heading for Nanchang. I allowed my imagination to go into overdraft. I visualised the international food and Cafe Latte being served. In my English-language-starved head, I heard the various announcements made by the cabin staff, all delivered in impeccable English.  

I spent most of my time in Beijing either darting between squat toilets or pacing back and forth to the departure board, praying that the Chinese characters would switch to something I could understand. The constant loudspeaker announcements in Mandarin droned on, a reminder that I was a stranger in this new, overwhelming world. Finally, the departure board showed Nanchang, and the Gate number began flashing. As I approached the appointed gate, I noticed how many people were staring at me. As I entered the plane, I realised that I was the only foreigner and struggled to control the rising panic attack. 

The interior of the aircraft just swam in front of my eyes. This was nothing like the British Airways flight I’d left London on. It even smelt entirely different. The cabin staff had to move my fellow passengers on as I was a creature of amazement. With my blonde hair and pink skin, I stood out like an oddity among the sea of dark-haired locals.  As the plane took off, it began to dawn on me that nothing was being translated into English. I had never felt so alone, and I could almost touch the frightening loneliness I was experiencing. I struggled to blink back the tears from my jet-lagged eyes. The Chinese never lost their fascination for me throughout the two-hour journey to Nanchang, and cameras were constantly thrust into my stricken face.

“…..???????........??? Nanchang,” intoned the pilot in Mandarin.

As I felt the plane beginning our descent, my bowels started to turn to water, and I didn’t feel well. I pathetically began wondering what I had let myself in for. When my blonde head appeared in the Arrival section, four Chinese adults grabbed me and led me to a car. We then began the incomprehensible journey to the University. I had arrived!

After a few days of excruciating loneliness (no internet, radio or TV), I was finally introduced to the twelve foreign teachers who lived on Campus, and life began to change slowly. My close friends were Sylvie (German), Karl (American), and Sasha (Ukrainian). Most adored of all was Stinky, a Chinese pug dog owned by one of the teachers.  

At the end of my three months. I was asked to renew my contract for the next 12 months. I couldn’t think of a single reason not to sign. Everything had changed since that plane journey into the unknown. My friends were fun; my students were challenging but enjoyable; the weather was pleasant, and I was getting used to the local food and the less-than-hygienic conditions. I confidently signed the new contract and looked forward to another year with Sylvie, Karl and Sasha!   Once I was firmly locked into another year in Nanchang, Sylvie and Karl stymied me when they announced they were not returning.  Aargh!. It struck me how much I had leaned on these two to guide me through my first three challenging months. Just as my positivity began rapidly sinking, my friends decided that the 28-year-old Ukrainian Sasha would look after me.  It was Sasha or nothing. At 57, I doubted that Sasha could look after me, but I had no choice.  

Sasha and I said goodbye to each other as we left for our three-month break to our home countries in the summer of 2009. We both said we were looking forward to our meet-up in September. I didn’t mean it, and I was highly sceptical that Sasha meant it, either.

Nanchang September 2009

Sasha turned out to be an excellent friend. During our settling-in period, we had many arguments, mainly due to my incompetence in all things Chinese. Once, he accidentally left me on a bus when we were trying to ignore each other and no longer speaking. Amazingly, I managed to get back home, whilst he spent many anxious hours searching high and low for me in a city with a population similar to Central London.  

One of our main points of contention was my age.  When Sasha and I walked through the campus daily, we were frequently stopped and asked if I was Sasha’s mama. I used to go nuts. At 57, I seriously thought I looked pretty cute and considered it dreadful that I might be viewed as anyone’s mother! The Chinese thought it was highly acceptable that Sasha and his mum had moved to Nanchang together and, worse, that we might be sharing a one-bedroom flat!! Sasha thought the mistake amusing, but the 57-year-old was grossly insulted.

Apart from the odd problems caused by our cultural and generational issues, we grew to admire one another’s company. We shared the same sense of humour and were often bent double with hysterical laughter. We found that we enjoyed the same food, the same entertainment, and the same locations.  When I first met Sasha, he told me he hated travelling and refused to visit anywhere with me. By the end of our first year together, Sasha and I had set off for Shanghai. We followed up with Beijing and Hong Kong and slowly discovered the other nearby Asian countries. We had a whale of a time and found that instead of coming back as enemies, our friendship only grew stronger.

We became next-door neighbours and constantly popped in and out of each other’s flats, drinking coffee and eating all our meals together. We had to provide our own entertainment as there was a lack of television or radio and strict government controls over social media. His fluency in English over the years was admirable—my abilities in Russian or Ukrainian were zero. He also had an excellent command of Mandarin, making life in China much more accessible.

Sasha lived and worked in Nanchang and had been there for eighteen years. I left Nanchang because I had reached retirement age, and without the renewal of my work permit, I would not be granted a Chinese visa. In 2015, I spent a week getting my teeth sorted in Thailand. I fell in love with Chiangmai in North Thailand and decided that this was the country in which to live out my retirement years. Leaving China, I travelled over the border to Thailand and applied for my Retirement Visa.  I have settled happily in Thailand - a country awash with expats, and English almost the second language. What more could a pensioner desire?

I had spent nearly eight years in Nanchang, primarily due to my friendship with Sasha. Despite our ages, different sexualities, cultures, and backgrounds, we became inseparable. After my farewell to China, Sasha and I were surprised by the continuing strength of our friendship. We regularly took our annual holiday together during the Chinese New Year and had weekly conversations on FaceTime during the rest of the year.

In January 2020, we visited Jakarta and had a wonderful time. We hugged goodbye, assuring each other of our weekly phone calls and preparation for our next holiday.  We had no idea we would not see each other for another four years. COVID-19 had arrived. Sasha returned to Nanchang, an uncomfortably short distance from Wuhan, and remained alone on a locked-down Chinese Campus until 2023 when the borders re-opened. Thailand’s borders were closed, but we didn’t experience a lockdown.  Sasha and I lengthened our phone calls and increased the amount of communication. We happily survived COVID-19 mentally and physically.

Despite COVID-19, the war in Ukraine, our age differences (I was now 72, and he was 43), and the fact that we lived in different parts of Asia and experienced utterly different lifestyles, our friendship remained as strong as ever.

Shanghai, August 2024.

The call to start boarding the Shanghai plane was finally announced, and as I set off for Shanghai, I was aware that a completely different woman was returning to China since my departure in 2016. I arrived at Pudong Airport in Shanghai. It had been ten years since I had last visited this city. Since COVID-19, Sasha and I managed to meet up in Hong Kong and Kuala Lumpur, and resume our holiday schedule.  The trip to Shanghai, however, was my first trip back to mainland China since retiring. I was looking forward to spending a week with my buddy, who would guide me through this beautiful, bustling, overcrowded city. I was surprised at how much I had missed China, and revisiting familiar sites and areas of Shanghai that I knew well was so exciting. Fabulous though Shanghai was, the absolute icing on the cake was wandering the streets with Sasha, constantly laughing and chatting.

 In my wildest dreams, I never thought that a shy 28-year-old man from Ukraine would be my main ticket to success as I embarked on a new, exciting life in Asia as my sunset years began to beckon.