Ostrich--Tuoniao.

Before we even set out for the sticks of Zhengzhou, I imagined our experience at the Ostrich Park to be something out of a reality television show. Something like the Japanese mockery of amusement, that show which name is at a lost, but the contestants fall from all sorts of weird contraptions into water, slammed against boards, anything to lose face and hear the loud noises shrill to their stupidity.

I wasn't eager to experience any of this, but karma has a way of being a bitch sometimes.




Saturday morning came with a spiliting headache. That previous Friday the foreign teacher crew had decided to hit the town of ZZ. Of course, we had to welcome it in its proper salute with Bijo, the staple of Chinese alcoholism, imagine diesel as a flavor for hard alcohol. It goes down your throat, warms you up and makes you think, certainly I am shortening my life for each second that this white fire lingers in my body, but we decide to cheer to it anyway, several rounds. We're young. Besides at this moment, I'm still unsure that an ostrich may shorten my life anyway. Death by beak picking, perhaps I'd make the New York Times weird and unusual obits. What an odd wish, yes, I know.

We rejoice the night and our newness to China. I feel great, apparently the fire of bijo has lingered, but as we arrive at the bar we've already come to know too well (ZZ is still pretty small and its expat community, much smaller), I see misery comes with company and Agnus, a large Australian man delivered us pain in the form of whiskey shots, a number too many. As I told the Australian farmer, huh, that's a name that only reminds me of one of my father's tv diversions, The World's Strongest Man Competition and its shining star, a horse-of-a-man contestant from Scandinavia. Clearly that should have been a siren of a warning, back away, quickly.



I could barely concentrate, I was in a serious world of hurt, as we drove past shacks, Chinese grafitti, fields, people, people, and even more people on bikes and mopeds, after all this is China. My mind jumbled. Did we really high step and heave our bodies over the campus' iron gate last night? That was unnecessary. Finally, rising upon the flat land, we see the painted dinosaurs on cement. We must be here. Dinosaurs, hmmm, not what we expected, but then again what did we expect? We were at a Chinese amusement park, which happened to greet us with a 30 foot tall golden ostrich.

We sauntered in. We were ready to play and I already had my camera out.

I thought I had been desensitized by my first trip to China, but then again, I hadn't heard of the rare sport of ostrich riding before. Clearly, this year was going to be *unique*.


It began with feeding the ostriches. All 100 of them. I had a flashback of Peru. Had I become that tourist? The llama, ostrich feeding oddball that transverses the world for the weirdest exotic animal cooing. If I hadn't made the exclusive club yet, I was making quick strides to it. At least this time I didn't have an embarrassing amount of Chinese/Peruvian flair. Though, I don't think they sell ostrich hats, scarves and friendship bracelets, or it may have happened.

As I flicked the green nosh at the prehistoric looking creatures, watching their beady eyes stare me down, I smiled with anxiety.

"I am not riding one of these," I stated to no one in particular, hoping someone felt the same way.

Granted, these were the babies, of sorts. Their fate, most likely, to become the king riders or our meat kabobs later that day for lunch.

Quick to rebuttle, Wes responded, "Yes, but when again will you ever be able to say hey, I rode an ostrich. I'm doing it."

Words that always haunt me, to jumping off a bridge in Auckland's city harbour, hydro speeding (basically boogie boarding with flippers) down a class III+ whitewater Chilean river, to dancing on a homemade platform of couches at an Iowa country party. If it only existed there, I had to try it, damned be my pride.

Unlike the theme parks of my youth, however, in China, the danger is real. This, we had to remind ourselves several times. We called it authentic. Before stepping up to the 50 foot long zip line, we asked, while staring at the rusting harnesses, is this dangerous? Yes, it is, the operator smiled. He didn't even pretend to lie. "See you never," I mumbled.

But really, our troubles began before that. This is where that Japanese humiliation show comes to haunt us. As a warmup, one by one, we decided to zipline across the water. A mere 20 feet. It was short, but the risk, if you didn't fling yourself fast enough with the start up run, get stuck in the purgatory of the middle and fall in the murky brown Chinese water. The risk being contamination and damnation of embarrassment. I watched the young Chinese boys lift their knees above the water and smoothly rattle to the opposing side. Their smiles read simple, clean fun. I was in.

We had all taken a turn, with 100% success, minus one butt drag with resulting unpleasant dampness and as so were cajoling our last member left, who was on the fence.

She didn't like water. She was unsure if she would make it. We didn't listen.

"Do it!"

Repeating the familiar mantra, "No regrets, when will you be able to do this again?"

"What's the worst that could happen?"

Okay, she was in, and then it happened. She got stuck and plop, down with a big splash. It was the worst that could happen. It was in her hair and up her nose.

"Oh NO!" Then laughter I couldn't restrain. The giggle fits had seized me, again.

One of the Chinese boys we had watched model the zip line before, jumped in and rescued the pulley. All we could mutter was, "Yep, the danger is certainly real."

After a quick water wring through, we were all dry, well, almost, and wandered to the rock climbing wall. I had no idea what to expect. Unlike the roots of yoga or tai chi, rock climbing is still a relatively new sport throughout the world and again, there was the danger factor at this amusement park.

The holds slid and some were caked in dirt, but the novelty of doning a military camo jacket while climbing was enough to excuse the first two offenses. Again, I wasn't here to get a workout. I just wanted to ring the bell at the top and hear through the megaphone cupped in our Chinese chaperones hands, "You can do it." And again, "Congratulations, you are alive, you are a hero now!"

Would all my climbing friends approve of my current motivations? Probably not, but China comes with sense of humor you must attain to survive. I've seen and heard of the boil, China rage, it sends people home in a fury.

We spent the rest of the afternoon, doing the usual. Jumping, suspended in the air by launching off with a Chinese man grasping onto what most would regard as getting personal too soon, followed by eating ostrich eggs, ostrich meat kabobs, and playing a game that involves punishment in the form of singing or dancing. Jingle Bells was a big hit.

I thought about my friends turning off their alarm clocks soon in the wee morning hours in Iowa to begin the tailgating season, doning black and drinking copious amounts of beer, armed with flasks. My how my life has changed and I hadn't even riden the ostrich yet.



To be continued...


But as I promised, I would at least die, I mean try, yes.

We found the two ostriches that the park kept as riding entertainment. They looked large, bored and angry, but I fork up the 10 yuan charge. A $1.50 to ride an ostrich, I'll take it.

Hopping onto an ostrich is awkward, I can assure you that. You stand on a pedastool like a toddler and shimmey up to its neck, resting somewhere near its hump. Finally, the wings are draped over your legs and the last words of warning are, "Hold onto its dirty wings or..." As you take your first strides under the wings of this bird, you don't want to hear the end of that sentence.

As a novice, I quake, but it's not bad. I imagine it's like riding a horse bareback, except instead of holding onto its mane, you madly grasp its flightless feathers. I only have one moment of terror. Eager to deploy me, the ostrich cranes its neck back to warn me in a pecking motion. My New York Times moment?! My responding squak sends us both into a moment. Let's end this--now.

Eventually, we all give it a try, this time with 100% success. What an odd, odd day, we mutter as we chalk up our day with fluffy pink ostrich pens and a motorcycle cart ride back to town.

Oh, the day I rode an ostrich.