By my third day of teaching in Dongbaoquan village, my voice had grown hoarse from repeated attempts to talk over 30 raucous 7-17-year-olds. They had been shy the first morning, silently watching and following us like the Pied Piper as we approached the village schoolhouse. This morning’s scene was far different: irreverent boys on tabletops bludgeoning the floor with their unoccupied stools, flinging chalk at an angry group of girls.

After confiscating their weapons and regaining order, I attempted to carry on my English lesson on moods, praying that the students would still remember the words for “happy,” “sad,” “angry” and “excited,” which we had spent the better half of the morning drilling.

“Yu Kan,” I called on one of the chalk launchers in an attempt to distract him. “How do you feel today?”

“What time is class over?” he retorted in Chinese.
“Yu Luxu,” I asked another member of the guilty party, “how do you feel today?”
“I don’t know,” he responded, also in Chinese.
A girl raised her hand. “Yu Linping, how do you feel today?” I asked her. She said she needed to go to the bathroom.
I tried a final time with one of the more studious girls. “Yu Haijing, how do you feel today?”
“Sad,” she responded with downcast eyes. After class was over, I asked her the reason, and she said, “Because the teacher doesn’t pay attention to me.”

Two days prior, I and five other short-term volunteers had arrived at a rural village in Hebei province, two hours outside of Beijing. We had signed on with an international non-profit group called the Rural China Education Foundation, dedicated to elevating the quality of education in China’s countryside. Our immediate objective was to teach a two-week summer course that introduced student-centered education and would hopefully instill more joy and interest in learning among rural students. Our long-term goal was to acquire insight into how to improve rural education on a larger scale.

Even prior to my arrival, I had been skeptical of what we could accomplish in only two weeks, and that third day of teaching seemed to reinforce my doubts. As I nursed my raw throat with lozenges I’d picked up from the local doctor, I couldn’t shake the feeling of inadequacy and futility. I considered how minimal my actual “teaching” thus far had been, severely limited by my inability to control a classroom with too many kids at too many different levels of the learning curve. Maintaining a balance between keeping the troublemakers in line while still giving attention to the studious ones and simutaneously challenging the gifted ones, seemed an unachievable task.

So, lozenges in hand, I headed back to the refuge of my host family, in desperate need of a nap, or to escape into the J.D. Salinger novel I’d brought for leisure. Considering the physical and mental fatigue I was voluntarily subjecting myself to, I couldn’t help rethinking how I’d come to be here in the first place instead of on an ATV tour of Tibet, my other choice for summer plans.

I first came to China in 2006 after graduating from UCLA, where I had studied British Literature and East Asian studies. Wanting to experience a life completely un-American while still utilizing some of what I’d learned in college, I began teaching at a university in Liaoning province. I frequently assigned personal essays to my students in a veiled attempt to learn more about their culture. One day, my student Jane relayed details about the shocking educational landscape in her home village in Shanxi province, one of the poorest in China. The lone teacher at her younger brother’s school was a 17-year-old who, like 80 to 90 percent of rural students, had never been to high school, let alone earned a teaching credential. And yet, for a compensation of just RMB 100 a month, this 17-year-old alone was solely responsible for the primary education of all the kids in the village.

Two thoughts immediately struck me when I read this: One, that my last trip to Carrefour had cost more than this teacher’s entire month’s salary, and two, that I had the potential to make some sort of an impact. I decided to do more research.

What I found was that the situation in Jane’s village, though somewhat extreme, was by no means uncommon. The problem wasn’t primarily funding (earlier this year, the government supplemented the nine-year compulsory education law, first enacted in 1986, with increased funding and subsidies for the poorest children). Rather, the obstacle lay in modifying an impractical curriculum that failed to address the concerns of rural life, and – even more difficult – in finding trained teachers willing to work in the countryside.

I vaguely remembered that a friend of my cousin had co-founded an NGO focused on rural education in China a few years back, so I shot her an e-mail and she put me in contact with Diane Geng, co-founder of Rural China Education Foundation (RCEF), who gave me more details and encouraged me and my students to apply for the program. I didn’t necessarily think I could make a huge difference, but I was attracted to the RCEF’s recognition that reform in China must come from within and that education was a means of cultivating socially responsible individuals with personal initiative.

And so I began coordinating with other RCEF volunteers in April 2007 to design the English component of a more comprehensive curriculum for the summer teaching program. We created grammar lessons around lofty themes like goal-setting, environmental consciousness, civic responsibility and appreciation of the arts. We spent hours composing songs, writing dialogues and searching for exercises that would make learning fun and accessible. We structured community research projects that would instill a greater pride and understanding of our students’ village. We conjured up fantasies of inspiring rural students and changing their lives.

After my first day of teaching in Dongbaoquan village a few months later, however, I realized that I would have to scrap the curriculum entirely when I discovered that half the students couldn’t even pen the English alphabet. Far from conveying my ideals or even “instilling a love for learning,” I could hardly hold the students’ attention long enough to teach a grammar point. There were the usual tough kids to deal with, those who left angry messages in the “suggestions” box and focused all their energy on being contrary. Then there were the kids who tested you in a different way, the ones who tried but simply couldn’t grasp the concepts. Or the kids who showed great potential but lacked the necessary foundation.

Perhaps I had too many expectations of myself and my students, expectations that were impossible to meet in such a short period of time, but it was incredibly painful to deal with the lack of visible results in our efforts. No matter how good our intentions were, we still faced an education system that prioritized exams and rote memorization, and students who lacked the time and resources to study vast amounts of inapplicable knowledge were at a complete disadvantage. This was the real hardship in being a village teacher, not so much the meager salary or sacrifice of city life, but the emotional tedium of working against such forlorn constraints.

Despite the frustrations I faced in the classroom, these woes were always soothed by my time outside of class. The kids would warmly open up their homes and introduce us to their parents, who made the best dumplings I’ve ever tasted and were usually cooked entirely from ingredients grown in their own fields. My seven-year-old students would educate me on the names of various flowers in their gardens and teach me lyrics to Chinese songs after I taught them some in English. At night, we would join the rest of the villagers as they danced a traditional folk dance called yangge, performed in a circle where one person choreographs moves that everyone else mimics. Watching the kids, parents and village leaders move effortlessly in unison was truly a profound sight, and as I and the other volunteers allowed ourselves to be pulled into the circle, I realized this village was unconsciously teaching me the very ideal I had purportedly been trying to teach them all along: building a community, taking pride in one’s own heritage, and enjoying every minute along the way. It was then I saw that perhaps the classroom education I had been trumpeting was not so important after all, and that there were more pertinent things to learn other than knowing how to express your mood in English.

On our last morning in the village, a few students woke up early to walk us to the bus stop. One girl fought back tears as she handed me a card she’d made, adorned with flowers, butterflies, and a Chinese flag drawn in her youthful hand. My own chest contracted when I read her note, which thanked us for bringing her happiness and for giving her so many good memories. She promised she would never forget us and begged that we would never forget her. But I knew even before she asked that I never would.

In retrospect, I realize that what I really wanted was just to understand a way of life different from my own. Taking part, even if just momentarily, in a community whose camaraderie and appreciation for the basic stuff of life proved to me that there was more than one definition of a quality life. I also recognized the privileges I had in comparison to these kids, who not only lacked educational resources and material possessions but even simple things like protein in their diets and ointment for their insect-ravaged skin. For all that Dongbaoquan gave me in those two weeks, I hope most that I am now more equipped and experienced to make an impact on the future, both theirs and my own.

When it was over, I couldn’t help feeling that I had somehow failed these kids – that I had played with them and had a good time but hadn’t really helped. Yet, as one of my teammates later remarked, “I know now that I probably won’t single-handedly change rural education in China, but I think that if I can preserve my relationships with these kids, it will have been more than worthwhile.” As I sorted through photos that I was about to mail off to Dongbaoquan, imagining how my students will and won’t have changed by the time I have a chance to visit next Spring Festival, I knew she was completely right.

Despite
the many reports of Internet addiction and carpal tunnel syndrome
resulting from too much control pad crunching, computer games can be
– dare we say – educational, especially if you’re trying to
bone up on your Chinese. We shopped around and picked out some
homegrown Chinese video games for different age groups: some
cultural, some historical, and some just plain fun. Most require at
least some level of Chinese literacy (or at least a Chinese-English
dictionary on hand), but these alluring games may be just the impetus
you’ve been looking for to start working on those Chinese
characters. Vivian Chow

For ages 8
and up

五子棋
(Wuziqi)
Five Secret Stones
Game type:
Strategy
Level
of Chinese difficulty: 1

The
object of this two-player Chinese board game (known as Gomoku in
Japanese and Five-in-a-Row in English) is to align five of your
pieces in either a vertical, horizontal or diagonal row on a 15-by-15
grid before your opponent accomplishes the same goal. Similar to
tic-tac-toe and Milton Bradley’s Connect Four, this deceptively
simple game requires complex strategies and thinking ahead to
outguess your opponent. Practice your skills at
www.bangmang.cn/flash/game/wuziqi.html, where users can play for free
against a computer. The Flash page loads very quickly and requires no
additional downloads, so anyone with a few minutes can get online and
start playing right away. No Chinese language skills are necessary
for this game.

春秋Q传
(Chunqiu
Q Zhuan) Spring
Autumn Analects Q
Game type:
Massive multiplayer online role-playing game
Level of
Chinese difficulty: 4

While
many games are vaguely set in "ancient China," the main
attraction of this game is its emphasis on recreating a very specific
time: The Spring and Autumn period (722-481 BC), when Confucius first
started teaching the roles of society and the individual, ideas which
play an important part in the game. Like the extremely popular World
of Warcraft, Spring Autumn Analects Q is a massive multiplayer online
role-playing game, in which players have to interact with thousands
of other avatars in an online virtual world. It is also purported to
be simple enough for the novice, yet still entertaining for expert
gamers. Spring Autumn Analects Q is available for free download at
cq.xoyo.com.

大富翁VII:
游宝岛
(Dafuweng
VII: Youbaodao) Rich Man VII:
Touring Treasure Island
Game type:
Simulation
Level of
Chinese difficulty: 3

As
the title suggests, the object of this game is to become a "rich
man" (or woman) through various real estate deals and other
business ventures. Set in Taiwan (whose other moniker in Chinese is
literally "Treasure Island") this game is also a great way for
players to learn about the geography of Taiwan, as maps are based on
the actual topography of the island and its cities. The game features
16 characters of various backgrounds, including a Saudi Arabian
tribal chief, a soccer player named "Beck" (贝哥,
Bei Ge – who suspiciously resembles a certain famous English
player), and some other appropriately named characters like Jin
Beibei (贝贝,
"Gold Baby") and Qian Furen (钱夫人,
"Madame Money"). Traditional Chinese lunar holidays are
celebrated within the game, and they can affect your bank account.
For example, characters receive red envelopes from Cai Shen (财神,
"the God of Wealth") during Spring Festival.

Ages 12 and up

幻想三国志
(Huanxiang
Sanguo Zhi) Three
Kingdoms Fantasy
Game type:
Role-playing game
Level
of Chinese difficulty: 4

Luo
Guanzhong’s The Romance of the Three Kingdoms (三国演义,
Sanguo Yanyi) has provided fodder for dozens of video games and
mostly of the action variety. Primarily a role-playing rather than an
action game, Fantasia Sanguo requires players to solve puzzles,
complete missions, and interact with other characters (and yes, some
romance is involved) rather than just conquer and destroy. For those
who still enjoy a good fight, Fantasia Sanguo offers interactive
battling that has been praised by online reviewers for its realistic
feel (i.e. fights taking place in a bamboo forest that first require
cutting through the trees) while still keeping blood and gore to a
minimum. Overall this game is an excellent way to stimulate interest
in another one of China’s "four great classical novels."

梦幻西游
(Menghuan
Xi You) Journey to
the West Fantasy
Game type:
MMORPG
Level of
Chinese difficulty: 4

Fantasy
Westward Journey is set in the Tang dynasty and based on the most
kid-friendly of the four great classical novels, Journey to the West.
The intro to the game details some of the mythological creation
stories that are universally known in China. Additionally, players
can choose from one of 12 sidekicks – each representing a different
animal of the Chinese zodiac – to assist them in their missions.
Some tasks require additional teamwork, requiring players to
collaborate with others online. Though the cartoon graphics are
certainly suitable for kids, fans of all ages have helped to make it
one of the most popular online games in China.

象棋水浒战2
(Xiangqi Shuihuzhan Er) Chinese Chess
Legendary II
Game type:
Strategy
Level of
Chinese difficulty: 2

Before
taking on old timers in parks or on the street corners of Beijing,
practice your Chinese chess skills with Chinese Chess Legendary II
(yes, that’s what it’s called). The game is based on Outlaws of
the Marsh (水浒传,
Shui Hu Zhuan), another of China’s great classical novels, this one
set in the Song dynasty. Players can choose from among 25 different
characters, each with a unique personal background and set of chess
playing tips. The software also keeps records of all games and even
moves. Instructions are available in both Chinese and English. A
similar online version is available at www.airgo.com.tw.

明星3缺1
(Mingxing San Que Yi)
3 Stars Minus 1
Game type:
Strategy
Level of
Chinese difficulty: 2

Mahjong
is one of China’s most traditional Chinese pastimes, and 3 Stars
Minus 1 is one of the premier electronic mahjong games on the market.
Online and interactive, Star 31 allows players to assume the role of
and compete against caricatured versions of pop stars from the
Chinese mainland, Hong Kong and Taiwan, as well as Japan. In total,
there are 14 pop stars, each with unique personalities. Dubbing is
reportedly done by the actual stars, and players can even choose
their facial expressions, bringing a whole new meaning to the term
"poker face." Those up for a challenge can accumulate points and
eventually ascend to higher-level rankings, even collect actual
prizes. Visit www3.gametower.com.tw/games/star31 for more information
about playing online.

Ages 16 and up

仙剑奇侠传
(Xian
Jian Qi Xia Zhuan) The Legend of
Sword and Fairy
Game type:
RPG
Level of
Chinese difficulty: 5

The
Legend of Sword and Fairy is set in ancient China and fuses romance
with wuxia, a subgenre of Chinese martial arts. The main protagonist
is Li Xiaoyao, a callow youth from a small fishing village who sets
off on an adventure to become a martial arts hero. Along the way, he
befriends a sorceress, Zhao Ling’er, and an heiress, Lin Yueru,
thus setting the stage for the ensuing love triangle. Though the
characters are fictional, the archetypes of the honor-bound hero,
supernatural being and aristocratic denizen are authentic, as are the
landscapes they traverse (including parts of modern-day Sichuan,
Yunnan and Suzhou). Players even have interactions with the Bai and
Miao minorities in Dali during certain levels of the game. The
much-anticipated fourth version was just released in August, but it
may be a good idea to find the first version of this game and start
at the beginning of the plot.

中华英雄谱
(Zhonghua
Yingxiong Pu) Chinese
Heroes’ Manual
Game type:
RPG
Level of
Chinese difficulty: 4

Sponsored
by the State Youth League Committee, this game was actually designed
with the intention of "cultivating education, patriotism and
integrity in Chinese youth." It provides an overview of aspects of
Chinese history and culture, featuring characters like Song dynasty
General Yue Fei (岳飞),
Ming dynasty naval leader Zheng He (郑和),
11th century judge and statesman Bao Zheng (包拯),
and PLA and CCP paragon of the 1960s Lei Feng (雷锋)
– all historical heroes and household names in China. The game is
strewn with tidbits about Chinese history, famous Chinese poems,
herbal medicines, traditional customs and etiquette, and even some
classical Chinese books and art. First released in 2005, this game is
now available both online and for the PC.

Where to find
games
Most
of these games are available at the big technology bazaars like
Bainaohui (10 Chaoyangmenwai Dajie, Chaoyang District) or
Zhongguancun in Haidian District. Shop owners at these markets are
also very willing to order any games that they may not have in stock.
For those who want to avoid the crowds and price haggling, big
bookstores also carry an impressive selection of software at set
prices. Some good bets are the Xidan Beijing Book Building (Xidan
Tushu Dasha, C17, Xi Chang’an Dajie, Xicheng District) or the
Wangfujing branch of the Xinhua Bookstore (218 Wangfujing Dajie,
Dongcheng District). Online shoppers can visit
www.chinesesoftware.com/d_games.html for an English language site
that also ships overseas, or joyo.com.cn (www.amazon.cn),
amazon.com’s Chinese counterpart.