It was 9 a.m. on a beautiful Saturday morning when I got possibly the strangest call of my life. Bobby, it’s Yi, said my good Chinese friend. You’re Jewish, right? I responded. “I have a job for you that only a Jewish man can do,” Yi said with excitement. “Good pay, too.” An hour later, we were in Yi’s rickety van, bumping through the outskirts of a major city in Inner Mongolia. After a while we arrived at a modest-looking processing plant with a sign that read “Sino-Kosher Meat Co. – Certified for the Chosen People.” Inside, I was handed a pair of white gloves and a laminated checklist titled “Halal vs. Kosher: The 14-Step Difference.” My job? To inspect imported lamb cuts and verify they met kosher standards—not because anyone was asking for it, but because the local Jewish community in Ürümqi had, for reasons still unknown, demanded a kosher-certified meat supplier. I spent the next three hours sniffing mutton like it was a fine wine. “No, this one’s not kosher because the goat was scared during slaughter,” I told Yi, who looked at me like I’d just solved world peace. He nodded. “Good. You’re hired.”
Then there’s the mysterious role of “Dragon Whisperer” at a theme park in Chengdu. No, it’s not a joke. The park, known for its over-the-top Chinese mythology rides, needed someone with the voice of a poet and the stamina of a marathon runner to narrate the “Journey Through the Nine Heavens” ride. The catch? The narration had to be delivered in archaic Mandarin, with dramatic pauses, booming tones, and occasional dragon roars. I once heard a German guy do it so convincingly that a security guard actually asked him if he was a real dragon spirit. The job paid well, but the real cost was my vocal cords. By the end of the week, I could barely say “hello” without sounding like a cursed emperor from the Tang Dynasty.
Oh, and let’s talk about the time I was hired to be a “Silent Companion” at a high-end wellness retreat in Hangzhou. The client didn’t want conversation, eye contact, or even the sound of footsteps. I was to walk behind a wealthy Japanese entrepreneur through bamboo forests, mirror their pace, and—most importantly—never speak. If they paused, I paused. If they sighed, I sighed. If they looked at a bird, I stared at the same bird with the same level of existential dread. The weirdest part? I wasn’t even allowed to wear shoes. I spent three days barefoot on moss, my feet turning into tiny, soggy pancakes. By the third day, I started wondering if the client was testing my soul—or if he just really hated the sound of walking.
One friend of mine, a Canadian named Luka, was hired to teach “Synchronized Pantomime for Elderly Citizens” in a retirement home in Guangzhou. The program was designed to improve motor coordination and emotional expression among seniors through exaggerated, silent performances. Imagine: 70-year-old women miming washing dishes, falling in love, and getting chased by a ghost—all without a single word. Luka had to choreograph routines involving dramatic gasps, slow-motion sneezes, and one particularly intense scene where a man “dies of joy” after eating a dumpling. The finale? A group performance of “The Tragedy of the Broken Teacup,” which drew tears from the audience and a standing ovation from the staff. Luka said he felt more like a therapist than a teacher. Or maybe a mime from a Shakespearean play written by a robot.
And then, of course, there’s the job of “Cultural Ambassador for a Cat Café in Xi’an,” where I had to explain Chinese cat idioms to tourists. “Why is this cat on a teapot?” one American asked. “Because in Chinese culture, cats on teapots symbolize good luck and a strong tea habit,” I replied, deadpan. Another time, I had to convince a group of French tourists that the cat named “Pao Pao” was not, in fact, the reincarnated spirit of Mao Zedong, but just a slightly grumpy tuxedo cat who liked sunbeams. The café’s owner said I had a “natural charm” and “a gift for lying convincingly.” I took it as a compliment.
Now, here’s a joke to go with all this madness: Why did the foreigner get fired from the “Emperor’s Ghost Doppelgänger” role at a tourist attraction in Lanzhou? Because every time someone asked, “Is that really Emperor Qin?” he’d say, “No, I’m just the guy who looks like him and gets paid in dumplings.” The manager said, “But you’re *supposed* to sound like him!” To which he replied, “I *am* him. I just don’t have the crown or the 2,000 terracotta soldiers to prove it.”
So yes, the job market in China is wild, unpredictable, and often hilariously strange—especially for foreigners willing to step outside their comfort zones (or at least their sense of dignity). Whether you’re certifying lamb for kosher standards, whispering secrets to dragons, or teaching elderly people how to mime the death of a teacup, one thing’s for sure: if you’re not weird, you’re not surviving. And hey, if you ever get a call saying, “Only a Jewish man can do this,” don’t hang up. It might just be the start of your next great adventure—complete with a side of existential dread and a bonus meat inspection.
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Chengdu, Guangzhou, Hangzhou, Lanzhou, English,
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