DAY ONE (Well, actually, still the same day as Travel Day so - *Spongebob Squarepants voice* Five ... Hours ... Later ... (Patreon)

We’ve slept 5 hours since our arrival in China. We have been assigned a translator – a young woman who introduces herself as Leonor. She tells us that she began her career as a Spanish translator before moving on to English. Then she tells us that we have a midday rehearsal, a mid-afternoon lighting rehearsal, and an evening dress rehearsal.

Bam. Right into it. 

First rehearsal of the day:

I’m not exactly sure what this one is about, but we’ve been told that it’s for the public shows we will be performing tomorrow in Zhuhai City, as promotion for the festival.  

Leonar walks us to “New Circus” – a monstrous building flanked by huge circus-themed statues of every type and colour.

We are led into the backstage of New Circus, passing by a slew of props and set pieces, each more extravagant than the last. She practically bounces alongside us.

"I am sooo excited to see your act!" she grins. "You are my absolute favourite! When I saw that you are coming to the festival I asked if I can be translator for you specifically! I love it! So cool!"

There’s a 10-foot high water snake, mounted on a rolling base, every scale painted in painstaking detail. There’s a ‘stable’ of huge, two-person puppets hanging on a steel rod against one wall – an elephant, a horse, a giraffe, a praying mantis . . . towering stone-wall set pieces, which we discover are concealing Olympic-size trampoline beds when an acrobat pops up 15 feet in the air, hovering above the top of the fake-wall for a moment before descending back to the trampoline bed, out of sight. 

Leonar walks on: “This is where the Opening Ceremony will be held; you won’t be performing in there though. You’ll be performing in the Old Circus,” she tells us as we emerge into a giant, stadium-sized theatre. There’s a round floor, with lines snaking all over it, suggesting elements that rotate and lift performers at various points in whatever show is staged here. There are water elements – fake rivers running from the backstage out and around the stage. Row upon row of plush red seats stacked around three sides of the ring, disappearing far off into the rafters, which are hung with countless thousands of dollars of lights. And – the entire back wall (which I can only take a stab at saying must be more than 50 ft high) is an LED screen, upon which elaborate backdrops and animations cycle through as an ever-shifting backdrop. 

Jesus. 

We walk across the empty stage towards a group of 20 or so dancers who are warming up and rehearsing short pieces of choreography here and there. Another translator – Ezra – waits there for us, next to another Chinese woman (stage manager?) holding a clipboard. A hand-to-hand duo – Charlotte and Nicolas – who are competing in the festival this week are also there, waiting.

Seems like they’ve picked the acts that are the most easily transportable (AKA, no props, no equipment) for these shows. I guess that makes sense. 

“What were you guys told about this thing tomorrow?” Charlotte asks. 

“We were told we’re doing three shows . . . “ Troy replies. 

“THREE?!” they exclaim. “We were told one . . . !”

We all stay silent for a moment, staring at one another. Finally we shrug our shoulders, a collective ‘guess we’ll find out in a moment.’ 

“Okay!” Ezra shouts over the crowd. “Here’s the plan for tomorrow!”

He has us form up into a rough circle. “The dancers will be here; they will start the show; then each of you go!”

“Wait,” Charlotte says. “You mean – we perform in the middle of the circle? That’s the stage?”

“Yes,” says Ezra. 

“And we are to stand in line in the circle with the dancers as the other circus acts perform?” I say.

“Yes!” Ezra says.

“No way,” I say immediately. “This is not possible. We can’t stand here for whatever amount of time, getting cold, waiting for the other acts. We need to be warming up before we go on.”

The other circus artists nod in agreement. 

“Oh,” says Ezra. He confers briefly with Clipboard Lady in Mandarin. “Okay, you can start outside the circle.” He pauses briefly, then continues: “first show will be outside, second show will be in a mall, third show will be in a mall.”

“No way,” says Charlotte this time. “We can’t do this act three times in a day. It’s the most difficult act we’ve ever choreographed.” Internally, I’m in agreement – warming up and cooling down my back while we hop on and off a coach bus several times throughout an afternoon is sounding like a great way to screw up my back before the festival even begins.

Ezra confers with Clipboard Lady again. “Okay, you can just do less hard tricks.”

“It – what – we – our act is made the length it is, we can’t just take out tricks – it won’t make sense.”

“Okay, then you can just do shorter act.”

My brain immediately starts chewing on some 90-second version that we can make sometime in the next . . . oh, 12 hours.

“We don’t have a shorter version.”

Ezra and Clipboard Lady pause for a moment, speak again for a moment.

“And, is there somewhere to warm up?”

They pause again. I get the distinct impression that this is not something that has been taken into consideration (and probably won’t be). Tomorrow is sounding less and less enjoyable by the second. Somehow the ‘rehearsal’ is wrapped up quickly, without resolving the above-described concerns, and Leonar is ushering us to follow her again – to our second rehearsal of the day.

Second rehearsal: Lighting tech

“Okay, you will have 90 minutes to set your lighting cues,” Leonor says as we walk into “Old Circus”. We have circled around to the backstage entrance, closed off from the rest of the resort by a high wall and a guard hut. Just inside the wall there are two large metal cages, maybe 15 ft high and 20 ft wide each. One of them contains an entire flock of white doves; confusingly, the other cage contains . . . seagulls. 

Yeah. Seagulls. 

Like standard, gray and white, steal-your-entire-bag-of-chips-right-out-of-your-hand-when-you’re-not-watching seagulls.

“What are those for?” I ask Leonor, laughing. 

“Oh, I don’t know,” she says, giggling a little. “I guess it’s for . . . like . . . I dunno, when they need the birds to fly over the water or a stage or something.” She shrugs. 

Okay . . . 

“I will help translate for you to the lighting technician. You might have to help me with some words – like, I know a little bit for lights, but if it’s really specific technical words I might ask you to describe it to me.

“Sure, no problem! I’m sure we won’t need 90 minutes, though.”

Famous last words.

Oh, how wrong we were.  All it was, was problems. 

It was 90-minutes of agonizing, proverbial tooth-pulling with the lighting technician, trying over and over again to get him to synchronize changes in the lighting in time with our track. They even had our video from Cirque de Demain pulled up on a laptop next to the lighting board – but instead of matching what could be clearly seen in the video, we went through a painstaking, slow process with each lighting change of “how about this colour; how about this row of lights; how about this movement; no, slower; no, slower; no, slower; okay and that needs to not be such a harsh transition . . . nope that’s still too abrupt . . . “

And so on. 

Each time I was sure we had nailed it, the technician would cue the lighting and – 

The timing was all off.

Our track was cued up in the sound system of the theatre. I stood next to him and Leonar, carefully showing each time stamp that the lighting changes should coordinate with. 

In the end, our 90 minutes had elapsed, key lighting cues still weren’t happening, and there was a very bossy-sounding Chinese woman speaking over our music into a microphone as she directed dancers onto the stage for what I gather is a rehearsal for the opening of each show.

Troy and I conclude that we had no idea how spoiled we were by the lighting technician at Cirque de Demain, who literally waved us off with his cigarette and told us to just go down to the stage, whereupon he quickly and magically programmed all the lights exactly to the music in all of 15 minutes. Le sigh.

Third rehearsal: Dress Rehearsal, ‘Show B’

Just like Cirque de Demain, this festival has divided the competing acts into two shows. Troy and I have been sorted into Show ‘B’; for the most part this means that we are performing almost exclusively in the evening. Show A gets a nice afternoon time slot. At first I groan internally – oh god, we’re going to be performing so late every night . . . And then I realize, well, if we were in the afternoon show, our bodies would actually be thinking it’s more like 3 or 4 in the morning so . . . alright then. 

I scan the callsheet that Leonar has shared to our WhatsApp chat: it looks like we are after the intermission, after a 10-minute flying trapeze act and a 7-minute duo straps act. Basically, the show will start, and then we’ve got somewhere between 70 and 80 minutes before we go on. 

“This is good,” I remark to Troy. “Even if the timing is a little off, we still have the intermission as a ‘placeholder’ that tells us we’ve got like . . . 15 minutes before we go on stage.”

Leonar has told us to come to the backstage of Old Circus at 6:30pm. 

“But . . . we’re not on until . . . what, 8pm at least?” Troy says. 

“Uhhh . . . yes. But – they want you to be there from the beginning.”

Okay. 

We’re one of the first acts in the backstage space for dress rehearsal. Only Christopher and Milena – the duo trapeze act who we competed with at Cirque de Demain – and the tango-juggling duo are in the space, slowly warming up. 

Hmm. 

Leonar comes along around 7:00pm. Nobody seems to be in much of a rush to get Show B’s dress rehearsal going. 

“What’s up, Leonor?” I ask. “It’s not on the schedule but . . . is everyone taking a dinner break now?”

“Yeah, dinner break,” she says. 

“Oh. So it’s not starting at 7pm,” I say.

“Uhhh, no . . .” she says. 

“Okay, that’s fine,” I say. Guess I get to do lots of physio exercises and activation drills – probably good for my body anyways after all that sitting from plane rides. “But, Leonor, this is important – if the timing changes at any point in the schedule once the show starts, please let us know as much in advance as you can – I have to time my warm-up as closely as I can with when we go on – and we can’t stay warm indefinitely . . . A few minutes one way or the other is okay, but, like, if something changes by 20 or 30 minutes it is not possible to go on. We could be injured if that happens, so we can’t do it. Okay?”

“Ah, yes, I understand,” she replies. 

8pm rolls around. A troupe of Russian dancers swoop into the hall and immediately bee-line for the mirrors, where we had set up our bags and gear – except we’re across the room checking out who is onstage currently, through the monitor they have set up on the far wall. 

“Defend your space!” Christopher calls jokingly from his own yoga mat. 

We not-so-jokingly hustle back to our corner and proceed to spend the next 45 minutes doing as many split-related exercises as we can in an attempt to defend our 10 square feet of carpet space.

9pm rolls by. We’re not going to go on until 10pm . . . 

Things are moving slowly. 

I catch Leonor walking through the backstage area, on her way back to the theatre – 

“Hey, Leonor, are they including the intermission today? Or no? Because it’s just a rehearsal.”

“No, they’ll do intermission, because flying trapeze is after.”

“Ah, okay, they need the ‘intermission’ to set up the flying trapeze.”

“Yeah.”

I walk back over to Troy. 

“Okay, so looks like we’re on track for like . . . 25 minutes from now.”

“Great,” he says. “So you can start warming up your back.”

I’m just moving into the second of my back warm-up drills when Leonor comes tearing back in from the theatre. 

“Come, come, come!” she says, looking distressed. “You have to go on!”

“What?!” Troy and I say simultaneously.

“Yes! GO! NOW!”

“Whoah whoah whoah – we’re not supposed to go on for 20 minutes! We can’t – you need to give us at least 10 minutes–“

“Just come to back of the stage,” Leonor cuts me off. “Let’s GO!”

Irritated at the weird energy of it all, I pick myself up and start following Leonor, who has run ahead. She runs back and starts pulling me along when she says I’m not running after her. Troy is further behind, still, wrestling with his sneakers. 

“So – you’re going to let me finish warming up in the nearer backstage?” I say, a warning edge in my voice. 

“Uh – I – yes –“ she says, as she is surrounded by two other stage managers, each of them yelling in a louder and louder voice. 

“Leonor, we – cannot – go on yet. What is going on?”

“Two other acts didn’t show up.”

“Okay, but you needed to tell us so we could be ready on time,” “Why didn’t you tell us that earlier?!” Troy and I say simultaneously. 

“Okay but just go out and stand in the middle!” she pleads. “Ahh! Where is Troy?!”

I’ve fully let the hard edge take up residence in my voice. “For what? A lighting check? And then – you let us come back here and finish properly warming up our backs, right?”

“I –“ Leonor begins again, but is cut off by the male stage manager, who is yelling in Mandarin. “He says – just go out and don’t do any tricks.”

Troy has caught up now. “What?!” he says. “No, we are supposed to run the act! We did a million walk-throughs today. You said this is our chance to do the full thing –“

As we are arguing with them, I hear the familiar water droplets of our track come in over the sound system in the theatre. Oh, they seriously didn’t just . . . 

“Why are they playing our music already, we’re not even out there,” Troy exclaims.

“They’re going to re-start it for us, right?” I say darkly. 

“Just go, just go, please!”

I’m angry. 

Not irritated.

Not put-off.

I’m angry.

We’ve waited over three hours in the backstage of this theatre for this dress rehearsal, on tiny sips of sleep spread out over 48 hours, after going through meetings and rehearsals that we were unaware of until 5am this morning. Every – single – other – act on the Show B roster has been in full costume, fully warmed up, and run their entire act with their music and lighting cues. I’ll be damned if we don’t get to do it properly. 

There’s a certain amount of messiness to any live show that I’ve ever done – some things run a little fast, other things run a little slow, sometimes there’s a technical malfunction that has to be addressed – and you have to roll with it. I have tolerance for that, and a ­capacity to adjust to it – to a certain extent.

But, this is a rehearsal – a rehearsal that’s supposed to be for us to get ready, to figure out the stage, what tricks work on that particular surface and which ones we have to look out for or modify – all these things. There’s no audience out there. It doesn’t matter if they wait 5 or 10 minutes for us to actually be ready. What’s the point of a dress rehearsal if the performers aren’t rehearsing?

I’m tired of the yelling. 

I push past everyone and stride into the theatre like a thundercloud. 

Yup, there’s our lighting, flashing away to the music on an empty stage.

“They’re gonna re-start it, right?” Troy says again.

“Just go mark it,” the male stage manager repeats.

Troy looks at me. “Don’t –“ he says. “Don’t go out there, you’re not warm, it’s not safe for your back.”

“I guess we just go fucking mark the second half of this shit,” I grit through clenched teeth to him.

We stand there, in the middle of this huge ring, and bloody mark it. 

Our music finishes, and I’m off the stage in a heartbeat, pushing past whoever is standing in our way back to our gear and clothes, backstage. Fuck this shit. 

You’re probably only this worked up because you’re really jet-lagged… trickles through my mind. But angry-Ess doesn’t particularly care at this moment. Troy – who is mostly unflappable – is not happy either. 

“Screw this,” I say to Troy. 

“This is insane,” he says. “We literally just told her that we can’t go out with zero notice. What the hell.”

I nod curtly in agreement. 

“Like – they wouldn’t have done that if we were an act that had equipment,” he continues. “Like – if we were a trapeze act, or a trampoline act, they couldn’t have just been like OKAY GO NOW. They can’t just push us around because they think, ‘Oh, it’s easy, just make them go, there’s nothing to set up’ . . .

“Let’s get our shit and get out of here. I don’t want to talk to anyone else tonight. Such bullshit.”

Leonor pops up anyways, face twisted into a combination of stress and upset. “I’m so sorry –“ she says. 

“Leonor this can’t happen again,” I say. 

“It’s just – they –“ she doesn’t finish a sentence. I don’t think that there’s any good end to that sentence. I know it wasn’t her fault that this happened, but all the same –

“This was unacceptable,” I continue. “We explained very clearly the minimal requirements that we need to do our act. We wait here for three hours to run our actual full act, the same day that we arrive, with no sleep, and then we are told ‘too bad just go and do a half-version’? After everyone else gets to do it properly? This was . . .” I search for a conclusion that doesn’t include any curse words. “This was disrespectful and unprofessional,” I finally get out.

“This can’t happen again,” Troy repeats. “It’s not okay.”

“Like if this happens in competition? Or at the show tomorrow? We will not perform. We simply will not. We will not injure ourselves because of other people’s disorganization.”

“I’m so, so sorry,” Leonor repeats again, sounding near tears. 

“I know that it wasn’t your fault,” I sigh. “And that your bosses are probably yelling at you to make stuff happen–”

“–No, they weren’t yelling,” Leonor interrupts. “That’s just the volume Chinese conversation happens at.”

I push onward: “Okay, but we also need you to help us communicate these things to the rest of the team. This was so crappy. We could have been resting and recovering for tomorrow and the rest of the shows.”

I feel bad for making her feel bad.

I know that getting angry in China is a lose-lose situation for both parties in terms of losing face.

I know she’s probably between a rock and a hard place.

But I’m also in no mood to be bulldozed over, and not about to let this go without a fight lest the rest of our two weeks here follow the same pattern. 

We walk away from a deflated Leonor, out of the backstage, past the cages of doves and seagulls, back to our hotel rooms. 

“Oh god,” Troy sighs. “I hope tomorrow’s shows aren’t like this.”

I shake my head. “If tomorrow’s shows are like this, they aren’t happening.”

“Right,” Troy says. “What’s the point of this if we get injured before the festival even starts?”

We wish each other goodnight. I stand in the shower for a long time, trying to burn off some of the feeling sitting in my chest that I know will keep me awake for long hours to come if I don’t drain it off. 

Right before I fall asleep, a final message pings through on WhatsApp from Leonor:

Hey guys, so change of plans, remember I told you that there will be three places that you’d perform? So tomorrow they narrowed it down to just one.” 

At least that will be less insane, I think to myself as I drift off to sleep.

Tomorrow’s a new day.