I know why the China-man spits

The last few weeks have rudely awakened our senses and sensibilities to the ongoing pollution crisis here in China. For months it has been all over the news, on CNN special reports, entire month-long features have been devoted to it in the NYTimes, and with the Olympics fast approaching, the issue seems to have grown into an international imminent danger for athletes, let alone the millions of tourists. But only recently have the effects of the pollution really sunk in and, truthfully, made me want to leave China if not for that reason alone.

A few cities ago, in Wuhan, I became dizzy after a dance number and left stage feeling like I was going to faint. I was not the only one to experience this, and our company actually had oxygen tanks offstage because so many performers were unable to get enough breathable air while dancing during the show. Left and right we saw performers holding their heads or their stomachs, sitting down to catch their breath, and feeling drained and exhausted in the most inopportune time: during a show.

The spitting culture in China had amazed us; from the streets to the restaurant, we had grown accustomed to the sound of “hocking” left and right, men, women, children coughing up and clearing their throat in the most distasteful and unpleasant manner, spitting in the most public or private of places, indoors and out. Backstage crew would spit on the deck only feet away from where costumes were laid for quick changes; a woman would hock a big one and let it go as she passed by you on the street. The sound is like nails on a chalkboard for most anyone in this company, and the sight of it equally appalling, so you can imagine my surprise when we started doing it, ourselves.

It’s like waking up with a head cold; the dry air you’d been breathing in all night leaving you with a gummy feeling in your throat and mouth, a coating on your vocal cords so you can barely speak without sounding like Harvey Feinstein, only the feeling lasts all day long and the more time you spend outside the more cumbersome it becomes. In Xi’An, perhaps the city with the worst visible pollution problem, I wake up every morning and look out my window to see a white haze covering the entire horizon; buildings are barely visible, the entire city is in a fog, only one that never lifts, and that we breath in and coats our lungs, our throats, and everything in between.

I’ll take the occasional picture where the sun seems to create a glow around buildings or mountaintops, a continues gradient of white that sweeps over pagodas and city blocks, and it looks beautiful, like I lucked out by waking up early enough to catch the dew before it has lifted, leaving the city looking tranquil and in a hazy world of its own. Then I realize it’s three in the afternoon, and as I put my camera down and feel that lump in my throat, I lean over to my friend and say “sorry” as I join the masses in hocking it up and spitting it out. Gross. I know. What, you’d rather swallow?