How Does One Dress to Buy Dragonfruit? True Stories of Expat Women in Asia

by Shannon Young

  I had just returned from walking her to the door when Ana, a Chinese American colleague, bustled up to my desk. I only had to see the gleam in her eye to know that she was about to offer commentary about the impossibly gorgeous Mandarin program representative with the imperfect teeth.

  "You know,” Ana began in a conspiratorial tone. Amanda, a Chinese national colleague from the freezing northern city of Harbin, looked up and leaned in to listen. "They probably thought you were a guy.”

  I wasn’t quite sure where Ana was headed with that comment. "Well, my name is pretty unusual,” I hedged.

  "That’s why they sent her.” She nodded in the direction of the door.

  I glanced furtively behind me, as if Joanna might suddenly reappear in a blaze of light, accompanied by a full orchestral soundtrack. "You really think that’s why?”

  "Oh, definitely,” Ana said. "To seduce you into signing up for their classes.”

  Amanda made a small sound of dismay, the corners of her eyes turning down. I knew she was hurt by the accusation that a fellow Chinese woman would resort to such measures to make a sale, but even she couldn’t deny it. My eyes slid over to Ned, who was fully absorbed in his work and had clearly already forgotten what Joanna looked like.

  One week later I signed up for New Concept Mandarin’s first level of Survival Mandarin. When Ana raised her eyebrows at my decision, I cited their excellent curriculum materials, the flexible class schedules, and the extra online training they offered. It didn’t hurt that Ned had decided to forego taking Mandarin classes and would never need to encounter Joanna again.

  The Mandarin teacher for my one-on-one lessons was a young woman aptly named Sunny, who was generous with both her praise and her smiles. Unlike Joanna, Sunny wore simple blouses and skirts, no makeup, and a ponytail. Each week Sunny would marvel at how quickly I was learning and how good my pronunciation was. Thanks to my foundational knowledge in Cantonese, we flew through the curriculum.

  Not only was my Mandarin improving, but so was my self-esteem. I could learn Mandarin, I assured myself, and I could find kind, genuine locals with whom to build relationships.

  But a few weeks later, I entered the New Concept Mandarin office to find Joanna, in another body-hugging outfit and looking as manicured as ever, sitting in my classroom.

  "Hello,” I said cautiously, trying to hide my surprise as I sat down across from her.

  "Hi.” Joanna’s smile was strained, her voice bitter. "Sunny no longer works for us. So I’ll be your teacher now.”

  "Oh, okay.” I tried to muster enthusiasm in my tone, but I was not particularly successful.

  She continued as if she hadn’t heard me. "She found another job at a TV station. A better-paying one.”

  I murmured something unintelligible, unsure whether I should be offering congratulations or condolences.

  "Sunny was a great teacher, but New Concept Mandarin doesn’t pay enough to keep people like her.” When I didn’t respond, Joanna gave me a hard look. "Don’t you think? Isn’t it worth it to pay more for good teachers?”

  "Yes, sure.” At least I knew the right response to that question.

  Joanna sighed heavily and shook her glowing tresses. "Let’s look at your last homework assignment.”

  I squirmed in my seat, anxious about displaying my language inadequacies to a woman who outshone me in so many ways. That first class, our interactions were stilted, but we both plowed ahead, determined to fulfill our obligations.

  As the weeks continued, I began to suspect that my stunningly beautiful Mandarin teacher was nowhere near as polished on the inside. In fact, she seemed lonely and even a bit miserable. I could never tell if it was calculated on her part or if it was just her way of making conversation, but she increasingly found ways to insert details about her personal life into our interactions during class.

  "I have a two-year-old daughter,” she told me one day as we practiced Mandarin phrases for asking others about their family members.

  "Really?” I exclaimed, my surprise immediately giving way to admiration. Given how amazing she looked, I would never have suspected she was a mother.

  "Dui,” she confirmed, then switched to English. "But I don’t get to see her much.”

  I nodded, thinking of Shenzhen’s many migrant workers who lived far from their children, most of whom were being raised by their grandparents.

  "Her father won’t let me.” Her almond eyes flashed with anger.

  Unsure how to respond, I remained silent.

  With each sentence she spoke, Joanna’s life unfolded like a sordid soap opera. She and her husband had divorced soon after the baby was born. He and his mother had conspired to keep the child from her. Even now, when she went to visit, they would hide the young girl from her mother. They told the girl that this woman trying to see her wasn’t her mother but someone who was trying to snatch her away.

  I was riveted, despite the fact that my expensive Mandarin class was devolving into an English-language therapy session. Each week, the proportion of English we used to communicate increased as Joanna recited her former mother-in-law’s most recent insults or relayed her latest efforts to get custody of her daughter.

  I listened, made sympathetic noises, and occasionally glanced at my Mandarin textbook as a subtle reminder of our original purpose. The irony of our cultural exchange was not lost on me: Joanna regularly dominated our conversations and had limited personal boundaries; I, in turn, was resorting to subtle cues and indirect communication in hopes of helping her save face.

  The one bright spot in Joanna’s life was her Australian boyfriend, a former student who promised to bring her to Australia one day. Her eyes alight, she told me how much kinder he was than her ex-husband and how he was trying to help her gain custody of her daughter.

  I kept my expression neutral, but I had seen enough shady relationships between expatriate men and Chinese women in Shenzhen—usually involving promises of visas and marriage in exchange for sexual favors—to be deeply skeptical of the Australian man’s intentions. Whenever I heard Joanna talking to him on the phone, calling him "darling” and asking him what he wanted her to cook for dinner that night, I tried not to cringe. I was sure this relationship would end badly for her as soon as he decided to move back to Australia.

  Toward the end of our second-to-last class, as Joanna wrapped up the weekly update on her drama-filled life, she looked me in the eye and said, "You’re really nice.”

  "Uh, thanks.” I wasn’t sure how to take the compliment.

  "You really are,” she emphasized. "Your smile is so kind and you always listen to me. You’re much nicer than other people in Shenzhen.”

  I smiled at her. "Thanks. That’s very nice of you to say.”

  Her words stayed with me as I took the subway home that evening. I couldn’t remember doing anything for Joanna beyond listening and offering her my sympathy—hardly actions that should generate such effusive praise. I wondered if her stunning beauty was actually a handicap that lured in treacherous men and caused other women to shun her. Perhaps this was why she had chosen to share intimate details of her life with a captive student who was just a stranger passing briefly through her life.

  At the beginning of our last class together, I noticed a diamond ring on Joanna’s left hand. Unable to resist, I asked pointedly, "Is that a new ring?”

  "Yes!” Her smile was electric as she showed off her sparkling rock. "Matt and I are engaged.”

  "Congratulations!” I felt a burst of hope for her. Sketchy expats, as I liked to call them, didn’t usually invest in expensive jewelry to symbolize their empty promises.

  "We’ll move to Australia when we get married.” A shadow crossed her flawless face. "I hope I can bring my daughter with me, but I’m not sure if I can.”

  At the end of the class, we embraced stiffly. I congratulated her again and wished her well in her upcoming marriage. With one last brilliant smile and a toss of her perfect
hair, she encouraged me to continue practicing my Mandarin.

  As I rode the elevator down to the ground floor of the New Concept Mandarin office, I thought how Joanna had been the perfect foil to highlight many of my shortcomings: my poor language skills, my cultural incompetence, my imperfect complexion, and my waist that wasn’t as thin as I wanted it to be. But my impossibly beautiful Mandarin teacher with the crooked teeth and the sad almond eyes had also reminded me—in broad, bright strokes—what I did have: an adoring husband, an affectionate family, and an email inbox full of messages from friends living thousands of miles away.

  The elevator reached the ground floor, warbled a weak chime, and opened its doors. As I walked through the lobby, the security guard in the lobby eyed me with disdain. I ignored him and stepped lightly onto the sidewalk, breathing in a measured cadence through the suffocating, smoggy night air.

  Dorcas Cheng-Tozun is a writer, blogger, and editor whose personal essays and short stories have been published in Hong Kong, the UK, and the US. She is particularly passionate about telling true stories of the messiness and beauty of human connections, of sustainable social change, and of the unexpected ways in which we experience the sacred. She has written a full-length memoir about her experiences as a Chinese American living in the industrial city of Shenzhen, China, and is represented by Carrie Pestritto of Prospect Agency. www.chengtozun.com

  BANGKOK THROUGH THE EYES OF AN INDIAN GIRL

  By Neha Mehta

  It’s 7:30 in the evening. I finished my work a bit late due to a last-minute meeting. I come out of my office and decide to take a bus to my home. By the time the bus arrives, it’s already 8 pm. The bus is jam-packed with Thai people. I can see I am the only foreigner—or should I say, the only Indian girl—in the bus. This feeling of being the odd one out has always made me nervous. I manage to handle my nervousness and look for a place to sit in the bus. I have to stand because there is no space, and as the crowded bus makes several stops, more and more people board. I remain the odd one out. I am standing in the middle.

  There are men standing in front of me. There are men standing behind me. They look strange because of their unique Thai features. A lady conductor comes to me for the ticket. Since I am already sandwiched between people, I struggle to open my handbag, find my wallet, and hand over money for the ticket. The men realize my discomfort, create some room even though there is virtually no space, and let me find my money easily. After forty minutes, I press the ‘stop’ button. The driver struggles to stop at my bus stand in such heavy traffic. He gives the indicator, and all the cars slow down, giving him his due space. The bus driver, equipped with a screen near his seat attached to a CCTV camera on the exit and entrance passage, opens the door and waits until his screen shows no more passengers exiting the bus.

  No, I do not fall from the running bus, nor do I have to get down in the middle of the crowded road. I get down safe and secure. That’s quite an experience for an Indian girl. In India, where I originally belong, one can never be so comfortable on the bus, especially when you are a girl sandwiched between strange-looking men. And getting down from the bus takes an athlete’s legs as the buses never stop at the bus stand, nor do they care to use indicators. Had I been living in India, I would never have opted for a local bus to my home.

  In India, bus rides are quite adventurous. It’s the things you have to face and people you have to bear that make it an adventure. First, the stinking smell inside the bus gives you nausea. And when you can’t hold it any longer, you end up throwing up on the road in the moving bus with no tissues or water to clean yourself. Second, the seats are often broken. If you are a person with regular back pain, a bus ride is not for you in India. That’s the first advice doctors give to back patients.

  Apart from cleanliness, which has always been out of question in Indian buses, the people on the bus add to your fury. Men stare at ladies traveling on the bus irrespective of their age, status, or looks. Some daring chaps even go to the extent of touching. When you object, they get infuriated and suddenly they are no longer human. They will try to slap you, tear off your clothes to embarrass you, or grope your genitals. Some daring ones follow you when you get down from the bus and harass you in an unexpected manner.

  Even when there are more ladies on the bus than men, the discomfort persists. They will sit as if they have paid for two seats, not for one. Their heavy handbags will leave you with no space to sit, and if they are with a child, they won’t pay for an extra ticket. They will place the child between the seats, causing utter distress to fellow passengers. Then we have some ill-mannered youths who sit on the seats reserved for elderly people. Knowing all this, riding a bus is the last thing I would do in India. But in Bangkok, it’s not the same.

  It’s 9 pm. My home is still far from the bus stop. I will have to walk for another fifteen minutes before I finally reach the door of my house. I walk past an empty, isolated road, a shortcut to my home. I see some men crossing the street, but they don’t look at me. For my own safety, I pretend that I am talking on the phone with some friend who is coming to pick me up in a moment. But the men do not notice. They seem to be completely ignorant that there is a girl walking alone. There are a few abandoned shops on the street with weird symbols made with graffiti art. There is a thick growth of bushes and wild trees that suggests the land has been deserted for many years. And the absence of streetlights adds to its scary look. I take this road every day and manage to cross this area safely.

  My husband is already home. I reach our door and knock. He opens it with a smile and asks me how the meeting was. I take a glass of water and discuss the minutes of the meeting with him.

  No, he doesn’t show any sign of worry. No, I don’t discuss with him how the men in the bus were rubbing against my body. No, I do not tell him that the men I saw on the isolated road tried to molest or harass me. And I certainly do not tell him how scared I feel every time I cross the desolate road that leads me to my home. I do not discuss any of these things because they did not happen. In fact, those things never happen to me in Thailand. Although I am a foreigner, men never chase me, molest me, comment on me, or do anything repulsive. I could walk up to the nearest grocery shop even in the middle of night, taking the abandoned routes, without fearing men on the road.

  Traveling safely and comfortably in a bus and walking through abandoned streets that are usually hotspots for crime is an unusual experience for any Indian girl. I have traveled in buses in India with men gazing openly at me and other girls from top to bottom. Even if you are wearing a veil, their lusty eyes will still make guesses about your figure. Some overly clever men try to be friendly by pretending to be helpful, though their intentions are not hidden from any of the girls on the bus. Some make comments, some make sexual advances, and we even have instances of brutal rapes in moving buses. The best example to quote here is how a girl was raped in the capital city of India when she took the bus home during late hours. The horror of the incident penetrated deep into the minds of every Indian girl. Even those girls who think of themselves as modern and are empowered fear walking alone, even on the main roads, at night. But here in Bangkok, I never have to face men hunting for girls. The bus drivers are men who have morals too, and they make sure their passengers get safely home.

  Yes, I have feared men in India. I have felt tense when I walked past a group of boys staring like preying cats. I have remembered Gods when I got out of work late, driving alone on empty roads. Yes, I have been chased by men on foot, on cycles, on cars, on bikes. I have friends who have been victims of sexual abuse by male servants. I have known women who have suffered at the hands of their drunkard husbands. I have heard stories about women being raped by their own brother and father-in-law. For a woman like me who has feared the presence of strange men, what I experienced in Thailand was nothing less than a dreamland. Yes, I fear murderers, I fear thieves, but I don’t fear men as such in Thailand.

  For my Indian friends back home, this
is something unbelievable. When I tell them I travel alone, that I have never had a single man comment on my appearance or harass me during my entire stay in Bangkok, they envy me. And why shouldn’t they? For an Indian expat woman who has felt the chill of fear walking alone on the road even during the day time in her own country, who is never able to ward off unwanted male attention, who, despite her conservative attire and mannerism, comes home with stories of molestation and sexual harassment, this late-evening travel in crowded buses is certainly not an ordinary experience. In Bangkok, I experience safety the way I never did in my own country. And coming home to see that your husband is not worried about you, despite knowing it’s late and you are traveling on a bus with strangers, further illustrates my point. This is the confidence that husbands can never have when their wives are working late or traveling in local buses in India.

  My own husband would have reacted differently had I been in India. In fact he would not let me take a bus at all. Most Indian husbands don’t appreciate the idea of a wife coming home late. They know it’s not safe out there after dark. If they have to stay out late, they make sure someone from home comes to pick them up from the office. My own husband would call me several times if I was coming home late, but here in Thailand, he is always at peace and never worried about my safety.

  I can say this because I am an Indian. Because I know what it means to be a woman in a conservative country like India where girls are raped in buses, autos, offices, hospitals, on highways. I never thought that women could ever be safe outside until the day I came to Bangkok. In my one-and-half-year stay in Bangkok, I have felt more safe and confident than I ever felt in my twenty-five years of life in India. I could stay home alone, I could walk alone, I could wear the dresses I only saw actresses wearing in movies, and still, I don’t have to carry pepper spray in my handbag.

  Thai society is more or less driven by women. That’s why you see women everywhere. If I go to the coffee shop, the attendants are girls who offer coffee with their usual ‘sawadee’ or Thai style of wai. If I ride in a taxi, the driver is a woman in formal dress. If I go to a bank, the manager is usually a girl. If I go to the work-permit office, the officer is a lady who truly understands my visa hardships. With all the girls around, I feel as if I am at home even when I am certainly not. I always feel safe, even in places where I would expect to be vulnerable just because I am a foreigner. Being a girl is never a reason for fear.