The Quest for Chinese School

“I called the school for you,” Huaze reports back.

My Chinese really isn’t good enough to do anything but the most basic of basic conversations over the phone, and I’m figuring that, when trying to talk a laowai kid into Chinese middle school, in a city that’s not used to foreigners, it’s probably best to have a Chinese person doing the talking for you.

“AND?” I say.

“They only take children from 16-18.”

“WHAT?!” I say. This is the fruits of my research to date, Harbin No. 3 Middle School, one of the best schools in the province, a middle school in both English and Chinese, and it’s a bloody FE college.

“They were quite angry about it,” says Huaze, with the battered air of someone who’s been yelled at by Chinese teachers for a morning or so.

“Right,” I say. “But it’s a MIDDLE SCHOOL? Right?”

“We actually have two words for that,” says Huaze. “I should have told you that. There’s 初中 and 高中. And Zac would need a 初中. Or even a 小学。”

Oh, of course! D’oh!

I marvel at headlines like “Party branch in Kazakhstan three in-depth chuangxianzhengyou implementation of program activities” and “Heilongjiang new tricks up their sleeves curriculum promulgation of regulations: the comprehensive evaluation in electronic file”.

I KNEW this, or theoretically knew this. Chinese education comprises 小学 (little school, or primary， 大学 (big school, or university) and 中学 (middle school, or everything in between).

However, it hadn’t really occurred to me that something that calls itself a Middle School in both Chinese and English could only take kids from age 16.

I have, in fact, spent considerable time on Harbin No. 3 Middle School’s website.

And, in between marvelling at headlines like “Party branch in Kazakhstan three in-depth chuangxianzhengyou implementation of program activities” and “Heilongjiang new tricks up their sleeves curriculum promulgation of regulations: the comprehensive evaluation in electronic file”, I’ve actually read up on the school.

I know it has 92 classes, more than 3500 students, “five national training provincial backbone teachers” (not to mention 66 municipal backbone teachers), an 8750sq.m. cafeteria, a 2095sq.m. boiler room (that matters in this climate), an emphasis on moral education and a 10% success rate for Beijing Tsinghua and Beijing Da universities.

Nowhere on the site, as far as I can tell, does it mention the small matter that it only takes kids from 16-18. I guess you’re supposed to know that?

“Right,” I say, wondering what on earth Huaze is talking about primary school for when Zac’s the right age for middle school. “I’ll have another look around.”

And so begins an increasingly desperate odyssey through the interwebz.

Anyone who thinks that the main problem with the internet in China is the Great Firewall, organised bank fraud, QQ sex pests or crack PLA hacking teams has never tried to use Baidu search.

Anyone who thinks that the main problem with the internet in China is the Great Firewall, organised bank fraud, QQ sex pests or crack PLA hacking teams has never tried to use Baidu search.

There really isn’t a lot of info out there on Harbin schools in English, unsurprisingly given we’re here for immersion. Google Maps has schools in locations that they moved from years ago.

So I need to use Baidu, China’s answer to Google, only without the algorithm.

As to how I do this? Pinyin input: type the correct English transliteration of what you’re trying to say, and pick the correct Chinese character.

You can try it yourself, if you like. Just switch your computer’s language to “Pinyin – simplified”, type in “nihao” and pick the machine’s number one offer: “你好”.

Hey presto! You are magically literate in Chinese.

Now type “ji”, click the options for “more” and “more” again, and you’ll get a choice of a couple of hundred characters, all of which can represent the syllable “ji” in Chinese. Hey presto! You’re back to being illiterate again.

But I digress…

Suffice to say I’m able to use Baidu search, and, by flipping between Google Translate’s renditions, the original Chinese and a reasonable online Chinese dictionary, I’m also able to figure out roughly what’s being said. And even that Google Translate renders the standard abbreviation for “Harbin” (Ha) as “Kazakhstan”!

Pleasingly, I find a lot of confused Chinese people posting on China’s answer to ask.com (Baidu Zhidao) “What are the best middle schools in Harbin?” and even “Does Harbin No. 3 Middle School take junior students?” or “What is the right phone number for XYZ school?”

So it’s not just me. That’s good.

I’ve found a list of schools on a government website! That’s got to be right, right? The phone numbers have to work, right? For some reason, Huaze’s less optimistic about the phone numbers on a government website being correct than I am.

Still, by lunchtime, I’ve located two promising candidates: Harbin Number 76 and Harbin Number 131 middle schools. Harbin no. 76 seems to be about 20 minutes walk from us.

Further, I’ve found a list of schools on a government website! That’s got to be right, right? The phone numbers have to work, right?

For some reason, Huaze’s less optimistic about the phone numbers on a government website being correct than I am.

Our landlord pops over. Yes, Harbin No. 76 Middle School and Harbin No. 131 Middle School are both good. Yes, Harbin 76 is a 初中. No, Harbin 131 hasn’t been at that address for years. It’s moved across town.

Huaze confirms 76 is a 初中.

And, no, they’re not answering their phone.

I summon my spawn.

“Shall we just walk down there and take a look at it?” I say. “See what it’s like? Have a chat to the teachers if we can?”

“Alright,” he says.

They have basketball hoops in the yard! Paper decorations on the window. All the signs, in fact, of a good and positive school environment.

It’s a balmy -10 or so outside, which means neither gloves nor hat are required, and as we cruise past the fruit and veg market down the alley beside our block, the CD store with Gangnam Style on auto-repeat, weave through a mass of ice-slowed yellow taxis, past the lantern-adorned ice sculptures and onto Zhongyang Dajie, I’m feeling rather good about our mission.

The school’s along to the right, just shy of Zhaolin Park, still decked out with ice sculptures. It’s a nice location, I think.

This’ll be a pleasant enough walk to school, down the heart of the city. We can pop to Bomele for cakes or Dongfang Jiaozi Wang for dumplings after school.

Yeah! It’s all coming together.

The building is large but not intimidatingly so. Many Chinese middle schools are enormous – several thousand strong, rather than the thousand or so that’s more typical in the UK – but this one looks relatively pocket-size.

They have basketball hoops in the yard! Paper decorations on the window. All the signs, in fact, of a good and positive school environment.

I psyche myself up. We have everything we could possibly need. Passports. A copy of my lease. Our police registration document, painstakingly obtained after a whirlwind tour of several different police stations, all of whom insisted I didn’t need one but could have one if I really wanted it, but would need to go somewhere else to do it.

Also cash, since, as I understand it, foreigners are entitled to use Chinese state schools but have to pay fees.

And Chinese names, finally! I’m Shan Ting (Graceful Mountain), and Zac’s Shan Zhansheng (Battle-Victory Mountain).

I cast my eyes over my spawn, who’s looking quite pale from the size of the place. He’s been to school in Bali, London and rural Norfolk, but never at secondary level. “Shall we go?”

And through the insulation curtains we go, into…

Like many people who speak some Chinese, my problem is not so much the “speaking” bit as the “understanding what the hell someone says back to you” bit.

… Well, it’s not exactly a school office. It’s a man approaching retirement age, at a rickety table with a phone on it, plus a couple of women of my sort of age who look like teachers, and some plastic chairs.

“Hello!” I say brightly. “I am English. My Chinese is not so good, I’m sorry. But I want to register my son in this school, and so I am looking for an English teacher.”

Like many people who speak some Chinese, my problem is not so much the “speaking” bit as the “understanding what the hell someone says back to you” bit.

From the flood of Chinese that comes from the ladies, I catch the keyword “year” and pretty much buggerall else.

“He’s 12 years old,” I say. “He was born in the year 2000.”

“Wait here,” they say, and begin interrogating Zac, whose voice shrinks almost to mouse-size.

The man beckons me to the table. He points at a list of phone numbers and issues a request from which I catch, repeatedly, “call this number” and something that I think means “head-teacher will come”, and something about “reading”.

This stumps me, particularly since he has a phone on his table. Am I supposed to go away and ring the head and make an appointment? I make as if to go. No, that’s not what he wants me to do!

I input the number into my phone. “That one?”

A flood of rapid Chinese. I give up and call Huaze, and hand the phone to the guy.

“He says his eyes are not too good, and he’d like you to call that number for him, because he can’t read it.”

Yeah, of course. How very Chinese. Impaired vision is no more of a hindrance to working reception than it is to driving a taxi.

It is beginning to dawn on me that, although we can read a page or two of Chinese text with no pinyin, or only the very occasional new word in pinyin, the pages or two of Chinese text that we can read have been incredibly carefully crafted for learners like us.

The head is a lovely, terrifyingly efficient woman. She apologises for her English, switches to blissfully moron-level and moron-pace Chinese, and escorts us through the corridors.

The walls are lined with slogans, each Chinese character taking up a single sheet of paper. Oh Jesus!

“Look!” I say to Zac, encouragingly. “You can read that one, can’t you? AND that one?”

It is beginning to dawn on me that, although we can read a page or two of Chinese text with no pinyin, or only the very occasional new word in pinyin, the pages or two of Chinese text that we can read have been incredibly carefully crafted for learners like us.

He knows, I think, around 300 characters. That’s a TONNE of bloody characters if you don’t know Chinese.

But really not very many at all if you are Chinese.

Oh god. What am I doing?

The school is very quiet. We pass classroom after classroom of students in neat nylon tracksuits, bent over their desks, handwriting: head after head snaps round to look at the laowai.

No discussion. No “So, what do we think about THIS?”

Just, head-down, writing…

And this is, for the record, an outward-looking Chinese school. They have hosted a visit from an English school. They’re one of the better schools in Heilongjiang, a province several times the size of many countries.

And… They’re handwriting. Most of Zac’s Chinese writing has been done using pinyin input. Let it hereby be noted: mastering pinyin input is in no way equivalent to literacy, much as it may feel like it at the time.

That’s the same ji in the word I used to register with the police, I think. Well, it’s the same tone, anyway. It could be the same ji. It could be a different ji. From the general air with which she repeats it, I suspect it’s not only the same ji, but an embarrassingly basic ji to boot.

While we wait for the English teachers to join us in the head’s office we talk a little.

What am I doing in Harbin?

Well, I’m a writer, I can work from anywhere, because I just sit at home on the computer, so I’ve come to Harbin because the Chinese is excellent and then Zac can go to a Chinese school and learn Chinese and discover Chinese culture.

Can he speak Chinese?

Yes, he understands it better than me, but he doesn’t like to talk it much.

Can you speak Chinese?

Yes, Zac says, he can speak Chinese, but doesn’t like to because he’s not very good at it.

A question about a year with a “ji” at the end.

He’s born in the year 2000, he’s 12 years old.

No. What year is he ENROLLED in?

Oh god. That’s the same ji in the word I used to register with the police, I think. Well, it’s the same tone, anyway. It could be the same ji. It could be a different ji. From the general air with which she repeats it, I suspect it’s not only the same ji, but an embarrassingly basic ji to boot.

The English teachers arrive, and we get down to brass tacks.

“BUT….” I splutter. “But…. I thought you were a 初中?” They ARE a 初中。But only for kids aged 14-16. Bugger. The English teachers head back to class.

By part-way through, I’m optimistic that things are actually going quite well. Zac looks absolutely terrified, but I think they’re ready to take him.

I explain that if they could take him, I’d of course be happy to assist with any students who wanted extra English assistance, say if they wanted to go to an international university.

The English teachers are on me like flies on three-day roadkill. Could I teach their sons? How much do I pay?

How much do I pay? Well, I pay our Chinese teacher 50 kuai per hour.

That’s cheap.

Oh fuck, no. No. I’m not giving private English lessons for £5 an hour (the going rate in Harbin is from £10 per hour to as high, I’ve heard, as £50 per HALF-hour, although that was from some poor hardworking cab driver who was being ripped off by a chancer – and, if you’re reading this, I’m the English lady who told him you were taking the piss).

But how old is he, they ask?

They talk among themselves again. I keep hearing the phrase “too small” as they discuss.

“This school is for children aged 14 to 16, grades 9, 10 and 11,” says one of the English teachers.

“BUT….” I splutter. “But…. I thought you were a 初中?”

They ARE a 初中。But only for kids aged 14-16. Bugger. The English teachers head back to class.

“But I can help with the English teaching….” I say, feebly. “He says he cannot take foreigners,” she says, scribbling down an address for me. “You need to go to this address and see Mr. Bai.”

The head is sympathetic. She puts in a call to a guy I assume to be her opposite number at the other 初中, the one that takes 11-13 year olds.

It goes roughly like this. “I have some English people here, the son’s 12, wants to go to school.” I like her immensely for using the specific “English people” rather than the more generic “foreigners”.

Flood of Chinese.

“Right, OK, I’ll tell them that.”

“He says he’s not allowed to take foreigners in his school,” she tells me.

“But I can help with the English teaching….” I say, feebly.

“He says he cannot take foreigners,” she says, scribbling down an address for me. “You need to go to this address and see Mr. Bai.”

Well, that school’s clearly out of the question. If the guy doesn’t want foreigners, which he clearly doesn’t, it’s not going to to work for Zac.

Bugger. Bugger, bugger, bugger.

The head walks us back across the yard, chatting about the English students who visited her on an exchange.

We bid a cheery farewell to the chap on reception and repair to Dongfang Jiaozi Wang (Orient King of Dumplings) to plot our next move.

“Relax!” I say. “It’ll be fine. You’ve done Everest Base Camp!” “Everest Base Camp wasn’t Chinese school,” he says. In which he has a point.

“Well!” I say, brightly, channelling positivity. “I thought that was a very nice school! And she seemed lovely, didn’t she?”

“I found it very intimidating,” says Zac. “EVERYONE was staring at me. Every time we passed a classroom, all the heads snapped round and EVERYONE stared.”

“Yeah,” I say. “I can see that. You’re always going to be a novelty. But it will wear off…”

“I’m really nervous about this,” he says.

“Relax!” I say. “It’ll be fine. You’ve done Everest Base Camp!”

“Everest Base Camp wasn’t Chinese school,” he says.

In which he has a point.

Our dumplings arrive, and we chow down.

Even native Chinese children are routinely kept down for a year or two, let alone foreigners: if you see a giant child in a kindergarten class, that’ll be because their literacy is below Primary Year 1 level.

“I have a bad feeling about this Mr Bai,” I say. I can’t read Chinese handwriting, unless it’s saying something incredibly elementary AND using the most unloopable of characters, so I don’t know what the address is, although that’s not a problem when you’re taking a taxi. “I have a feeling he’s at Harbin Local Education Authority, and he’s the man who has the say here.”

“What do you mean?” Zac says.

I’m concerned about two possible outcomes from a meeting with Mr Bai. The first is that he makes Zac sit middle school entrance in Chinese, then insists that he enter primary in whichever year grade he tests out as, until his language catches up. (Even native Chinese children are routinely kept down for a year or two, let alone foreigners: if you see a giant child in a kindergarten class, that’ll be because their literacy is below Primary Year 1 level.)

I’m not even going to mention that to Zac. It’s critical for the social side that he’s in his age group, with his peers. “What I’m concerned about,” I say. “Is that he could decide the guy’s right, and that Harbin schools CAN’T take foreigners.”

“Oh….” says Zac. “And then I won’t be able to go to any school in Harbin?”

“Yeah, exactly.”

“I think you’re right,” he says. “I think we should stay away from Mr Bai.”

Later, I take a snap of the address and Skype it to Huaze. It is, indeed, Harbin LEA.

I’ve had all sorts of fanciful notions about how Zac could perhaps go three or four days a week, for the language immersion, not have a full homework load, and do all written homework on his computer… That’s clearly not going to happen. In China, you’re in school. End of.

The scale of this endeavour is only vaguely beginning to dawn on me. I’ve thought of Chinese as a language like – well, not French or Spanish, or German, but possibly like, ya know, Russian or Arabic – that can just be picked up through immersion.

But it’s character-based.

Further, I’ve had all sorts of fanciful notions about how Zac could perhaps go three or four days a week, for the language immersion, not have a full homework load, and do all written homework on his computer…

That’s clearly not going to happen. In China, you’re in school. End of.

You do the hours, the brutal 7.15am-5.30pm hours, and the homework, all 2-3 hours of it, by hand, or you’re not in school. (I’ll learn that children as young as five attend school 8am-5pm, five days a week, with homework in the evenings and, sometimes, even at this age, extra lessons after school or on weekends.)

Frankly, right now, if there were an international school in Harbin, I’d take it. But there isn’t.

“Listen…” I say. “There’s a thing in China called ‘bilingual schools’. They’re not really bilingual but they do do some teaching in English. And I think sometimes they have native English speakers teaching English, so you wouldn’t be the only non-Chinese person in the building. Shall we try and find one of those instead?”

“Are there any?” Zac asks. “That would be better, definitely.”

“I don’t know,” I say. “I’ll have a look when we get back.”

My brain gets to work on a plan B. If I can’t find a bilingual school, I guess, it’s pounding the streets around Harbin’s many universities until I hit a likely looking school that will take the laowai in exchange for English teaching.

Work? That, I fear, is going to have to wait.

Thanks to Heidi Schempp Fournier for the lead image.