चिनेसे न्यू एअर

It was sometime after we had crashed the first time, yet before the second.
We were flying from Tianjin, an industrial city just outside of Beijing, to Taiyuan, a central Chinese city known for among other things, its famous vinegar and its hideous statue of a seemingly intoxicated horse galloping thru space with tongue flailing wildly outside its teeth which nicely greets you at a major crossroads. I had given the previous copilot my “here’s how I do not want you to land” speech, one which I have been working on refining lately, as it hadn’t seemed to hold too much credence amongst the First Officers here. I think I was working on how to adapt it to the FO sitting beside me then, Gavin (self given English name), when something outside the window caught my eye.

Ok close your eyes and imagine this:

Great, now that you’ve opened your eyes again you’ve realized that closing your eyes and reading doesn’t work too well. So let’s try this again. Imagine a late June evening in the Eastern United States. Fireflies are at their hormonal peak and are flashing away everywhere frantically, each in its own, random yet rhythmic Morse code. You are at a large field on a cool June evening, so there’s a bit of mist rising as the air cools near its dew point. Yet you’re not actually standing at the field, you are hovering about 500 feet above it, watching through the mist, a completely random, completely silent, orchestra of light bursts. Now go up about another 25,000 feet and imagine that this orchestra is being played out by thousands and thousands of other little buggers for as far as you can see. What do you have? Day 4 or 5 of Chinese New Year…and still going strong. Oh, and for authenticity sake, each of these little fire flies, whenever it gives off its burst of light, lets out a huge burst of noxious, toxic smoke, pleasantly laden with nitric oxide, sulfur oxide, heavy metals, and huge amounts of ozone. Oh, and most of these fire flies are no longer allowed to enter the United States because of among other things, the discovery of some radioactive isotopes in many of them that are born in China. But hey, it’s pretty, right?

So, back to inside the cockpit. I sat there, face pressed against the large side window, staring down, through the mist (or more accurately, toxic death clouds—bit pessimistic, eh?) at one of the most amazing things I’d ever seen. For as far as I could possibly see stretched an endless ocean of mute explosions…some colorful, some simply white bursts, but all endless in their frequency. As we flew over the metropolitan area surrounding Tianjin, a zone with a population in excess of 10 million, it appeared that every resident and their visiting relatives were out there, intent on lighting the sky up with a ferocity previously only known to Baghdad dwellers. The clouds thickened and we crossed over the mountainous area west of the Tianjin before crashing again in Taiyuan. Good times.

A few evenings before the firefly episode we had experienced the real Chinese New Year. My ears are still ringing and my stomach still gurgles at the thought of the drinking contests, three weeks afterwards. It was insane. We began the night at a hotel which is run by the Chinese version of the FAA, and were treated to gifts and a typical bizarre assortment of edible experiences including sweet fried snake, and my favorite, huge cubes of pure pork blubber with pepper. There is nothing quite like gelatinous blobs of peppered pig fat to go with an ice cold beer and shots of rice moonshine. After dinner we migrated down the street to another large, boisterous and smoky restaurant where the First Officers and mechanics awaited. It was here that the binge drinking truly began.

Unfortunately for many who dislike drinking in gargantuan proportions, myself included, the Chinese at festivities cannot just casually drink together with festive mellowness. If one comes to you and says hello, makes a toast and ‘cheers’ you, you are expected to raise the bottom of your bottle towards the ceiling and finish the remainder of whatever you are drinking right there on the spot. This is fine until you realize that standing behind First Officer Bill (whose real name is Wang Chai) is a line of 11 other copilots you’ve flown with (all with comical English names. My favorite being one whose name was…ummm….something like Zonqing Xailu Rong, but who then states after introducing himself “You can call me Bob.”) in the past month, all waiting their chance to clink glasses or bottles. After a few of these, and some scornful (but life saving!) glances from Elizabeth, I had to politely bow out from all of the other goodwill wishes coming my way, but not before getting to see one copilot completely empty his stomach contents, projectile like, immediately in front of us. He apologized, and then in true Chinese style, so as not to lose face, picked up another full beer and slammed it while we stood holding our noses in horror. He has ironically become one of my best copilots. Thankfully we don’t binge drink in the cockpit.

After the alcoholic mayhem had taken its toll on my cognitive functions I was hustled out to an awaiting taxi by Elizabeth and we headed home with a few other friends. When we arrived back home I passed out almost immediately, with only a few bed-spins, and missed the bombardment that took place that night. Lucky for me, the fireworks fervor is maintained throughout the 14 day celebration, and each night was of amazing intensity. Ever wondered what it sounded like landing in Normandy on June 6, 1944? Come to China after the lunar New Year and you’ll find out.

Check out this link to a video shot by our neighbor and fellow expat pilot for an idea:
http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=be8RBCoC4po