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The Yuan Dynasty (1271-1368) was established by the Mongol leader, Kublai Khan, who was the grandson of Genghis Khan—founder of the largest and most contiguous empire in recorded history.
The Mongols wore long robes with tight sleeves and a pleated, flared section from the waist down. They donned a very wide, corrugated belt at the waist, which was sown to the garment.
In yesterday’s article, Menswear Before Mao, I mentioned how the Qing Dynasty imposed the “long shirt,” or chang shan, replacing the common menswear of the previous dynasty, which was the Ming Dynasty (1368-1644).
Although there were periods in Chinese history when men wore pants, such as in the Qin Dynasty (221-207 BC) and the Southern and Northern Dynasty (420-589), Chinese menswear has followed an interesting pattern for millennia.
Picking up where we left off in the last article, Han Fashion, prior to 1912 Chinese men wore the chángshān, which can be seen by Sun Yat-sen’s attire (photo left).
(Guizhou, China 1986) As you can see by the photo above, when I lived in China many Han Chinese still wore a traditional form of dress, whereas I dressed in what the Han men considered modern Chinese clothing. But, before we get to their clothing, who are the Han?
The original name of the Mao suit is the Zhongshan suit, from Sun Zhongshan or Sun Yat-sen (1866-1925), the revolutionary leader who pioneered the Republic of China in 1912 by overthrowing the last of the Chinese emperors.
Photo top center Copyright Men's Fashion by Francesco.
Probably one of the most popular men, at least at this time of the year, who is immediately recognized by his unique clothes, is none other than—you got it!—Santa Claus. 
Santa Klaus used to be from the North Pole. Well, that’s when he was a bit chunky, carrying a little extra weight around the middle.
Numbering over 7 million, the Yi people possess several names, such as Nuosu in China and Lo Lo in Vietnam and Thailand.
The Dong people number about 2.9 million and make up one of China’s 56 minority groups.
One of the most striking differences between contemporary men and women of many minority groups throughout Southern China lies in their dress. This picture of Yao men and women demonstrates the point.
Numbering about 16 million, the Zhuang people have lived throughout southern China longer than any other civilization and, now, constitute China’s largest minority.
One of the largest minority groups with whom I had the most contact in China was with the Miao, who have dwelt in the Guizhou province for the past 2,000 years.
Some Miao tribes wear batik, which is created by dripping hot wax on white cloth that is then dipped in dye.
Ninety percent of the population in the region where I resided could be classified under one heading: down-and-out poor. In other words, there were plenty of paupers, especially among the minority groups, who lived entirely distinct from the mainstream of Chinese “Hans.”
In tatters, rags, and out at the elbows, their weather-worn faces lit up the morning. On every advancing day that I legged it to class, they saluted me with an elated “ní hao.”[1] From dawn to dusk, they drudged away unwearyingly.
[1] ‘How are you?’ pronounced Knee? How. Photos Copyright Men's Fashion by Francesco.
(Guiyang, Guizhou 1986-90) Sooner or later, I had to come to grips with the reality that it was more practical to ignore those homesick munchies and perfect my Chinese culinary skills, instead. By the second year, I had become proficient in making any living creature that creeped or crawled taste good. From the chopped ears, tongue, or snout to the pig’s feet, a sprinkle of soy sauce and a dash of hot pepper made any cut succulent.
(Guiyang, Guizhou 1986-90) The most effective way to make friends in Guiyang was, without a shadow of a doubt, by eating out. The choice was modest—either the students’ cafeteria or the snackbar alley! My routine was to spend dinners with students in the cafeteria.
Students squatted on the wall outside the hall and tossed out unwanted surprises (i.e., worms, stones, chips of coal, rancid meat, and UFO’s—‘unidentified fried objects’). These were all flung to the goldfish in the pond or to the local yokels who hung out at meal times: piggies, chickens, cats, dogs, and a friendly flock of fifty or so geese.
(Guiyang, Guizhou 1986) I relished the gusto of the local dives in Guizhou known in Chinese as xiăochī[1]. The scenario was enough to whet any hungry man’s appetite: chickens strutting on tables, dogs gobbling scraps beneath them, white cubes of pork fat sizzling to a crisp, hot peppers strung from the ceiling....
Following a massive outbreak of gānyán[2] in Shanghai earlier that year, hepatitis became a rampant epidemic in our region, and after one visit to a student who lay sick in the contagious disease ward of the hospital, I thought it best to take extra precautions!
The regional speciality was mamma’s five-cent bowl of noodle soup, which made a light lunch or midday snack. (Just hold the pork fat!) For the heartier eater, there was always an entrée of jiăozi[3] for twenty- five cents a serving. The average hash-house menu in our province posed no restrictions.
One morning after class, instead of a routine underground sweet radish for breakfast, I stopped for a bowl of noodle soup at one of the xiaochi alleys alongside the students’ dorms. Nothing exceptionally peculiar alarmed my palate, so I paid a second visit a week later. As I slurped up the noodles using my chopsticks as a shovel, the short order cook leaned over the counter. The waitress stared at me with a smile.
Oh, how I felt like howling! I was too squeamish. Then, the flashbacks—memories of my childhood puppy. I grew queasier. Mental pictures of the wolf-like canines scavenging the streets raced through my mind. White with nausea, I excused myself, thinking, Time to vamoose before I—
Sooner than later, the initial excitement of a foreign cuisine—a nibble of a băozi[5] here, a nosh of tángyuán[6] there—soon waned stale. A few weeks after my arrival, my body openly rebelled to the monotony of the region’s repertoire: rice for breakfast, rice for lunch, rice for dinner, and rice for dessert! Day in and day out, my mouth watered in vain for familiar tastes—lasagne, pizza, spaghetti alle vongole, gelati, biscotti, un panino, bread...anything! The easiest recipe to duplicate was rice pudding. Give me a break!
In a desperate scurry to satisfy these cravings, I concocted everything from A to izzard, or should I say gizzard?! I slapped together an improvisation of spaghetti with Chinese noodles and sautéed tomatoes. I churned out homemade ice cream by boiling and freezing a compound of water, powdered milk, sugar, and eggs. The other foreignors on the team concocted a mock oatmeal “fantasy” from soggy overcooked rice[7]—the evening leftovers that were recycled into students’ breakfast, which they seasoned with cinnamon, raisins, and honey to bamboozle the senses.
One of the major drawbacks in reproducing a non-artificial recipe from back home, which could be discernible to the taste buds, was the absence of recognizable oil. Even when wokked into Chinese dishes, the local brand required some time for acclimatization. Càiyóu[8] was the variety’s name—a thick nut-brown fluid extracted from rabe seeds that had to be refined. The refining process caused pitch-black fume to be emitted.
Refined or not, this unrecog-nizable condiment definitely did not make an appetizing substitute in dishes that called for olive oil or butter! Potato chips and French fries were edible, but a little hard on digestion. Deserts were undermined in every respect. Pound cakes came out weighing a ton! Oatmeal cookies made with horse-feed oats and this oleaginous substance didn’t quite hit the spot, but they did have the kick of a horseshoed-hoof.
Early on in the first semester, I was moved to tears when I stumbled upon pre-sweetened instant coffee in the newly constructed department store. What a change of pace from the cup of boiling hot water and lotus root powder, which tasted like sweetened cornstarch! I had a treat in our third semester when a fellow Chinese teacher showed up at the door with a pack of roasted coffee that he had picked up on vacation, on Hainan Island.
It did not take much to please me when new products that resembled back-home favorites hit the shelves. Our team tracked down everything that that matched their taste buds: mock peanut butter—a type of thick gooey caramel sauce, something that would be used to top a sundae—and artificial cola made from chrysanthemum flowers.
[1] ‘Snack bars’ pronounced shall chur.
(Guiyang, Guizhou 1986-90) The “peasant” children, as they were called, won my heart. Waist high in stature and clod in floppy unlaced shoes, they paraded around campus, prancing about in their rolled up army fatigues with sleeves that drooped to their knees. Although uneducated, they showed all the signs of ingenuity—prodigies of the American “Spanky and his gang!”
But the bottom line was that hostilities had put an irreparable rift between peasants and teachers. An ever-expanding economy favored the social mobility of farmers, who vaunted their accumulated wealth in newly constructed homes that were heralded by thousands of firecrackers set off round-the-clock. Locked into the same low salary, teachers were behoved to dwell in outdated blocks of apartment complexes for life.
Creatively wallpapered with crinkled newspapers and carpeted with nature’s dirt floor, “mamma’s” noodle house was my favorite greasy spoon. She was a heavyset peasant woman whose menu featured one speciality of the day—noodle soup with a heaping glob of pork fat, spiked with red hot pepper of the highest degree.
(Guiyang, Guizhou, August 1986) After sixty-two hours of dirt, soot, and tears, the train pulled into the station of our destination. A welcome committee of officials from the university stood on the platform to greet us. We followed them out of the station and into the parking lot where we divided into two vans. I could not help but gape out the window at the city. It was a far cry from the modernity of Beijing—decidedly undeveloped, even bordering on Third World conditions, if I may say so inoffensively.
The officials briefed us on the program for the day and escorted us to our new quarters to freshen up for a luncheon reception banquet. The drive took no more than a half-hour. We rolled through the front gate of the institute. There was no university air about it. The school grounds and its neighboring “peasant” hamlet had grown up together—mingling, intertwining academic and agricultural life, and feeding upon one another for decades.
The institute furnished the elementary and middle school facilities for the villagers. The farmers provided the meat, eggs, and produce for the institute. The merger of the two gained momentum in the social upheaval of the mid-60’s known as the Cultural Revolution, when the country bumpkins took advantage of the anarchy and filtered onto campus, a move that interwove college life and country existence into an unyoked marriage. (Photo left campus market)
Students and teachers kicked a soccer ball on the same pasture where the farm animals grazed. Students and teachers alike swam in the same river, in which farmers dipped their pots to irrigate the fields. Students and teachers leaned their bikes on the trees to which water buffaloes were tied for early morn grazing. Students and teachers strutted down common paths where stray chickens and geese scrounged around for scraps. Students and teachers huddled in dorms alongside the villagers’ vegetable plots.
Our dwelling quarters were situated even further out in the fields. (And what a ruinous stench that was released into the air during fertilizing season!)[1] In our neck of the woods, there were no designated garbage collectors. On campus, most throw-aways were burned in incinerators. We were instructed to toss all garbage onto a trash pile right outside our stairwell. We complied by dumping our wastebaskets right out the window of the second floor.
We were under the impression that the rubbish heap would be converted into landfill until, one day, we almost scrapped a binful onto the janitor—a black flop-eared porker. His partner was an old mare that was harnessed to a wagon, donning a scarf and bells that announced: “Animals at Work.” In the natural way of things, the hog was promoted. Several times a week, a pig was butchered in the farmstead across the dirt road from our bedroom window.
To insure freshness, the show opened a few hours before the market came to life, at about three or four o’clock in the morning with the high-pitched oinks of the victim being dragged to the butchery. The squeals intensified to a peak of horror until the blade met the jugular. From that fatal point onward, as the blood was caught in a bucket for an oriental version of what we Italians in the old days called sanguinaccio[2], the roars deepened and piddled down to a low-note gurgle, at which time we could go back to sleep!
At sunrise, the “peasants,” as they were called for better or for worse, trickled onto campus in a caravan of horse carts, pull carts, donkey carts, and shoulder bars to display their prized produce and hardy handicrafts upon roughly hewn wooden tables or on the ground. Animal carcasses from the morning’s slaughter were hooked onto trees; slabs of meat cuttings were flopped across log tables. Dogs licking their chops scavenged the periphery of the market’s bustle, salivating in rabid wait to lick clean the tops of the meat tables after sales. Flies—
(1986-1990) Ticket lines in China were discouragingly long. Holidays stretched them out even longer. A thousand people spelled a day-and-a-half wait. To say the least, there was plenty of action. When the ticket window loomed in sight, some impatient souls leaped onto the shoulders of the mob and reached into the opening with a fist of cash. Once, a young woman who dared to cut in line found herself literally tossed into the street.
Photo by Vmenkov Copyleft at Wiki Commons.
(August 1986) The two-day honeymoon drew to a close. It was time to get down to work—on the other side of the country, that is! A scenic two-and-a-half-day train ride would see us to what we would refer to, at least for the next four years of our life, as “home.” On the eve of our departure, I was asked to accompany Xiao Lu downtown to check in our group’s luggage.
From baggage check-in, we hurried over to a special office marked soft sleepers to purchase our train tickets, which, to my surprise, could be obtained solely upon the presentation of a currently extinct foreign currency called wàihùi[1] Xiao Lu explained to me that the trip would be more comfortable if we rode in firstclass compartments. In afterthought, preferred treatment for the two-and-a-half day initiation on a Chinese choo-choo was not such a bad idea after all.
[1] Pronounced Why! Hweigh!
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