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One of two things is required of the English teacher in China: a skin like a rhino or a TEFLon coating. Without a leather hide or a non-stick dermatology, that sensitive outer layer of laowai will soon be stripped bare, resulting in all manner of psychological and physiological discomforts.

So what are the ordeals lying in wait to get under the skin of English teachers lacking the natural defences prescribed? What are the stressors associated with bringing the world’s premier language to the land of Chinese characteristics?

Let’s take a look at a few of the potential challenges facing the insufficiently protected:

1. Death

For the seriously unlucky, overly naive, or unrealistically principled, the desire for schools to earn a fast buck and exploit expat teachers can have terrible consequences. This is one instance where prevention is most definitely better than cure.

2. A damn good thrashing

Not such a desperate end, but unlucky nonetheless if you happen to be in the wrong place at the wrong time. Always read the international news and remain vigilant against the volatile nature of Chinese nationalism. Alternatively, put that rhino skin to good use and stand there and take it like a man.

3. Getting fleeced

The Art of War has a lot to answer for; it justifies deception as a means to an end, as many expats have found to their cost. And locals will waste no time testing your metal upon arrival in China as you run the gauntlet of taxi drivers that make a New York cabby seem about as ‘in your face’ as a cuddly toy.

4. No pay

A contract in China is strictly for ‘information purposes only’. That’s not to say that the expat teacher should expect any correlation between the information contained therein and reality. If you find that your wages are withheld sometimes, when queried, your employer will likely point out the clause that stipulates a fine of one month’s salary for interfering in China’s internal affairs.

5. Identity crisis

Soon after taking position at the blackboard in front of their first class, an expat teacher’s understanding of their role is likely to move seamlessly through the following four stages of self-evaluation:

I am an educator; I am an entertainer; I am an exhibit; I am a babysitter

The denial of those individuals who steadfastly refuse to progress beyond the first stage usually manifests itself as inappropriate anger towards those who have moved on.

6. You’re a spy

Shame on you. You don’t look Chinese so why are you in China? You’re a capitalist roader if ever I saw one. Why choose this province when there are so many others to choose from? It’s a well known fact that most foreign teachers in China come here to spy. We would never dream of such underhand behaviour in your country.

Old prejudices and stereotypes die very, very hard for the expat teacher in the Middle Kingdom. Which leads us neatly to…

7. Disrespect

Not so much in the classroom, but more in the general view, the expat teacher faces the enduring schema of a talentless loser on the make. Here is a sample of the kind of mud that is being routinely flung in the expat’s direction, creating the kind of stigma that you could really do without:

I’m sick of white dudes like you who have asian fetish coming to china, boning girls, thinking you’re hot shit, when you can’t even get girls back home fromwhatever shithole you crawled out of. China boosts up your ego; you have western worshipping chinese peasant girls suck your dick and it makes you think you’re king. you ain’t no king; you’re slime. You’re lower than low. You’re fucking pathetic. You’re a “grade A loser,” as they say. All you’ve got to do with your time is write your jealousy filled, hater posts about contradicting someone who has done better than you. I hope you get AIDS from one of the hookers you’ve been banging, you cocksucking CIA spy motherfucker.

Made me laugh, anyway. Hat tips to Brendan and Kim for inspiring the response and bringing it to my attention respectively.

Sadly, the quote accurately reflects not only the default position of the fenqing, but also the attitude of a condescending element within the non-teaching expat community (Imagethief wrote about this a while back).

These individuals look down upon the English teacher in the same way that the Chinese businessman looks down upon street cleaners. If I was being charitable I’d say that they were ‘culturally immersed’.

8. The special guest

You are invited by your FAO to attend a lunch. Having escorted you to a decent hotel in the city and introduced you to a dozen suits that can’t utter a syllable of English. Smiles all round, FAO interprets:  “Honoured foreign guest please to visit humble company HQ. Very close. Few minutes only. Then lunch.”

Having been ushered into a waiting Buick your FAO disappears. An hour later you’re being escorted around a ramshackle assortment of buildings on the outskirts of the city that demand a rewrite of the health and safety in the workplace handbook.

Many photographs are taken while you smile, inspect, look impressed, and generally act the part of the foreign executive applying the finishing touches to a lucrative international order.

Two more hours pass before the Buick drops you off at a restaurant and all the suits begin to inebriate themselves with Baijiu. It’s another hour before any food arrives and there’s still no sign of your FAO, which is just as well because murder is a capital offence in China.

On the plus side you have now been elevated to CEO of a foreign company’s China office and there are lots of pictures in a glossy brochure to prove it.

9. “Helloooooo… laowai”

This is the psychological equivalent of  death by a thousand cuts. Under the heading ‘Discrimination’, this from Frommer’s China:

Unless you are of Chinese descent, your foreignness is constantly thrust in your face with catcalls of “laowai”, a not particularly courteous term for foreigner and a bit like shouting “Chinky” at a Chinese you encounter at home. Mocking, and usually falsetto, calls of “Helloooooo” are not greetings but are similar to saying “Pretty Polly!” to a parrot.

Only in China could an informal greeting become a national game of taking the piss. Get used to it, quickly.

10. If you can do all this…

… and more, yours is the Earth and everything that’s in it, and – which is more – you’ll be certifiable, my son!

You’ll probably be blogging about it, too.

When a trip to the bank is necessitated in China the customer needs to consider the cost in terms of time, aggravation, charges, and post-trauma therapy. It is my view that the latter expense can be avoided through a pre-ordeal course in relaxation techniques. Here’s a working example of how beneficial deep breathing can be.

A couple of weeks ago the funds I telegraphed from the UK duly arrived in China, despite the initial denials of bank staff keen to make dealing with a crazy foreigner somebody else’s problem. In this regard, the Chinese are world leaders. And this was just the prelude to a process more excruciating than the extraction of a deep-rooted molar.

The trick is to lower the heart rate and enter an enlightened state of contentment before setting foot in the bank. Thus, I was able to take my ticket and wait with calm indifference to the line-jumpers, the wannabe emperors, and the downright ignorant trying every trick in the book to convince all around them that being served first was their birthright. Inhale deeply, hold, release slowly. Repeat.

By the time my number came up the GBP-RMB exchange rate had dipped enough to wipe 400 kuai off the value of my intended transaction. Inhale deeply, hold, release slowly. Allow tranquility to descend.

My first concern upon arriving at the counter was to confirm the previous week’s assurance that the bank would swap currencies at the market rate without mark up or commission. Having knowledge of the market rate myself, I asked the cashier to show me that his computer was displaying the same rate. I really should have known better; silly boy! The difference between the rate quoted by the smiling teller and the true rate amounted to some 2000 kuai. Inhale deeply, hold, release slowly. Expel your anger.

There followed a comical discussion of monumental insignificance in which the bank tried to save face by explaining to me that they really hadn’t lied and that the rate quoted was the market rate – the ‘bank’s market rate.’ And if I doubted them, I was free to go to any other branch of the same bank and I would be quoted an identical rate. This debate lasted for an hour and involved cleaning staff, passers-by, and the occasional bank clerk. Meanwhile, the GBP-RMB rate had continued to slide, erasing a further 350 kuai from my personal fortune. Inhale deeply, hold, release slowly. Resist violent thoughts.

Flogging a dead horse is never a good idea so I was now contemplating withdrawing the Sterling to pursue a transaction in the ‘private’ sector, where I could certainly secure a rate closer to the market value. Now we had a new problem: the bank would have to order the Sterling from the Bank of China for which there would be a charge (and a delay) in excess of the saving I could make by conducting an exchange privately. Inhale deeply, hold, release slowly. Try very hard not to kill anyone.

They knew they had me by the goolies, and in a show of sympathy for the vanquished brought me a cup of tea. It sucked. Nevertheless, I thanked them like the gentleman I am and said without a trace of irony, “OK, let’s use the bank’s market rate.” The rate they had initially quoted was 14.208 against a market rate of 14.316; now they were quoting 14.1937, representing another 200 kuai vanished into the ether. By the time I’d filled in the dozen or so forms necessary before the transaction could be effected, the rate was down to 14.1878. I was offered more tea by way of compensation.

Inhale deeply, hold, release slowly. Then destroy everything in your path on the walk home.