Here’s an excerpt from my novel Laowhy?
On the topic of filth and debauchery, we come to a more unfortunate category of English teachers that plague the continent of Asia. Here we have the 35-60 something balding White men who settle down in a new Asian country after pissing off the wrong pimp in the Philippines, or got expelled from Thailand after too many visa renewals. As seen with the fairy tales of the Russian ice princesses, there wasn’t much in the way of a background check for teaching English aside from a White face and a soft smile. With the economic crash in 2008, older expats came to China to do a bit of soul-searching, and some had always been interested in China. Not all of these folks seemed to be creeps. Some were recently divorced and were keen on finding a bride to take home. Yet, many of such men had no plans of settling down.
Bald-headed Bob said he was from Canada, but he probably hadn’t been back in the last 15 years. Bob was hardened but happy, a guy who was glad to engage in conversation about just about anything, and would buy a round of beers for all who’d listen. He had that gregarious North American nature about him, but also was the kind of guy that would make a joke about airplane crashes and typhoons and somehow people around him would find themselves laughing. As for keeping folks with a fresh stock of beer, this extravagant spending came as a shock to most English teachers who you’d find splitting the restaurant bill four ways, arguing down to the last kuai.
Bob’s means of payment echoed Chinese dining culture that expected one person to foot the bill entirely with the implication that you would treat next time or owe a favor. Arguing over a bill would be a significant loss of “face” for any self-respecting Chinese. If there’s one good thing Bob was doing for the world, it was him serving an ambassador of old school bar etiquette—stopping fights with a friendly hand on the shoulder and a “hey now,” and helping bar staff clear empties when it was time to head home. Bob’s drunken diplomacy had rubbed off on the younger folk, which prompted them to be more generous when buying rounds of booze, and they became more mindful of their mess. Before this, laowai perched at a bar typically saw other White faces as direct competition for slow-paced teaching gigs and fast women.
Although best known for the booze and cheer, Bob had decent rhythm on the drum kit. Despite never having taken lessons, one could catch him banging away at bars along the Jinjiang River if he wasn’t too plastered. Though not a fan of Monkeyism, Bob dabbled in commercial music gigs, but he didn’t like to put up with bullshit like playing bongo over a backing track. He didn’t take well to the deceit of “talent” agents and preferred to stick to the classroom to pay his bills.
But the bar room hero had a dirty little secret: he was a sex addict. Rather than renting an apartment in Chengdu, Bob maintained a long-term residence at the ironically named “Traffic Hotel.” He had apartments in the past but was put off by the finder’s fees and stingy landlords. Although Bob was on good terms with the staff at the Traffic Hotel, he didn’t get much of a discount. He claimed to enjoy the benefit of having his life packed into a suitcase and was known to disappear with the drop of a hat. According to Bob’s late-night tales, he had a kid somewhere in central China who he visited now and again. Bob was in no hurry to bring his son to Canada for a proper education. During kid visits, Bob described how his ex-lover was always after him for money.
“I just wanted to be a Dad when I could, but money was all that made them happy,” Bob declared with a sigh. I’d rather arrive bearing toys, chocolate, baijiu, and jokes for grandma.”
The irony was lost since the “money = happiness” equation directly translated to Bob’s thirst for prostitutes. Every Chinese city offered a taste of prostitution through quasi-legal avenues. Classic “rub-and-tug” massage parlors were adjacent to the local cobbler or barbershop. Underneath a sign advertising “an mo,” one could spot bored women sitting by storefront windows. The blue glare from their cellphones reflected in ghastly white makeup and colored contacts. Operations at these massage parlors were quiet save from small chat over the drone of late night television. The chattering dialogue from soap operas or whizz bangs in action movies masked the sound what went on beyond the pink curtains. Moving up a tier were the luxurious men’s spas that promised “24-hour foot washing.” These spas were tucked in parts of the city best reached by private car, but any efforts to be discrete were trumped by neon flashing signs on par with those one would see in Las Vegas.
All the locals knew what really went on at these places. The spas set up shop where they had cheap rent and there was no real need to cover their tracks. As such, bribes to officials were paid in advance or they received complimentary business “perks.” Bob didn’t visit these spas, for they catered to businessmen who wanted to seal the deal after wining and dining. Instead, Bob went for the 150 kuai specials that he could muster up in alleyways after a bit of window shopping. Bob claimed he was only responding to “nature’s calling,” even when it meant downing qingjiu, a herbal liquor that gave him a hard-on at 11 a.m. For Bob, China was for work, Thailand was for a brief vacation, but The Philippines was a “gold mine.” He continued in a nonchalant manner,
“So, these people are out in the jungle, living in palm shacks and shit, they’ve got so many damned kids there’s no way they can take care of em’ all with their farmer salaries. You know, renting out a couple girls in the village can be a good investment, they can save up to build new houses, schools, and stuff like that. I talk to their parents, they are happy, you know, smiling, they get money, the girls smile too. Everybody’s happy.”
I assumed, that a man doing the deed in such heavily trafficked areas would be incredibly worried about STDs and HIV.
“Condoms? Naw. I hate condoms, I’m sure you hate condoms too…every-fucking-guy hates condoms. The young ones are clean— you don’t have to be worried. Once I caught a little something but just took some antibiotics and that cleaned it right up.”
What kind of country would allow, no, encourage, folks like Bob to make a classroom their workspace? All he needed was a white face to get in. An open door for pedophiles? Bob wins! When I asked Bob about teaching, he had a simple philosophy when it came to English class.
“Teach? No, there isn’t much of that going on. Just play fucking games, you are just a monkey to entertain the kids. If you come in and act like a ‘teacher,’ then the kids aren’t gonna be happy. If the kids aren’t happy, then they whine to their parents, and if that keeps up you ain’t gonna get paid. Just play games! They are what, eight years old, you think they are going to pay attention? Just talk to them in English and play more games.”
Though Bob came from a most unsavory background, his teaching philosophy was spot on. So long as one was goofing off with the kids, they would be smiling, and smiling kids made for smiling parents. For it wasn’t what the kids learned that mattered… it was the laowai face that mattered. Your laowai aura would make them English experts… or so the parents believed. Going back to our day in the life of Chris and Toby the brat, Chris ultimately lost his job because Toby “resisted” going to class. In China, this was seen as the fault of the teacher, who, unlike his son, could be replaced with another laowai until the supply had dried up. Had Chris put on a clown smile and danced around the princeling, he may have been able to keep his job.