Zai Jian Shanghai

It was January 2005 and I remember walking along Xizang Lu otherwise known – and to me at that time as – Tibet Road. I was staying at the very incorrectly titled 'Majestic Hotel' and was making my way to the office at Times Square on a cold but sunny morning. And as I'm an awesome multi-tasker, I was also managing to eat a street vendor bought breakfast pastry and drinking from a small bottle of what was supposed to be carrot juice but tasted a little too sweet to really be a vegetable. A thought washed over me and that was: I really like living in Shanghai.

I had already been there for about three months so the delightful city and I were in our honeymoon phase. There had always been a longing to journey beyond the country I called home but I had never thought where at the time those wishes crept into my heart. Well, that's where mine live anyway and as a result they tend to be a little short on logic. Maybe logic would have had me end up in London or Singapore. Instead, I left it up to fate to decide. Okay, kind of, I wasn't going to end up in Azerbaijan. although who knows, I could have been big news there.

 And so my wish was granted and I found myself getting to know the pearl of the east, the whore of the orient, and the Paris of Asia. It was neither of these things as the time she had earned those descriptions were long gone. But as there were so many traces to that past still visible and so tangibly close, you could believe the stories and even convince yourself she could live up to those names again.

It was another world, although it wasn't a completely new one as a brief holiday had been my introduction but that was very different to actually staying and living. There was a very strong sense of doing something different, perhaps unexpected, maybe stupid or brave. And if it was to cost me a year or two of my life, that seemed a rather decently valued exchange.

Shanghai was vibrant, exciting, but most of all it was new. And that newness wasn't simply my relationship with the city, it was also how the city felt about itself. It was an unknown entity to the outside world, it was more different then, it was more of an adventure.

I was by no means a trailblazer. There were many before me, giving advice on how best to negotiate my new home. How to deal with the strangeness and the sheer upsidedowness of it all. Because if there was another way to do something – even if that way defied all logic – then that's the way it would be done. But there were nowhere near the number of foreigners who arrived later. Or if there were, you never had the sense of it. there was more of a community feel amongst them – regardless of being from Europe, Australia, Malaysia, wherever – as we were all in new and uncharted territory. None had a map by the way, but that was the point.

There were many 'I love being here' moments over the subsequent months and years. Looking over People's Square at the spaceship shaped restaurant sitting on top of the Radisson Hotel building. Wondering through Xiangyang market near closing time, towards my apartment that overlooked this scene of chaotic commerce. Ending up an evening at Park 97 and having the oddest run-ins with both locals and foreigners – who were genuinely curious as to why you were in Shanghai of all places. As a matter of fact, it was the place to meet pretty much every foreigner not living in the exile zone of Pudong east of the river.

But it wasn't all beer and skittles as they like to say. you know, 'they' just could have coined that one in Shanghai long ago as it had just enough of a colonialist twang to it. Anyway, no beer, no skittles, just lots of work. It wasn't so much the hours. Well, they were definitely bad enough but it was the messiness of it all. Things just didn't work the way they were supposed to in a business sense. Adhocracy ruled the day and that entire deal of there's another weird and not so wonderful way around it wasn't so hot when it came to doing business. That's why it was still the domain of the cowboys and the east was definitely the wild west.

But foreign land, foreign rules – so you just found yourself going with it. Kicking and screaming of course but going nonetheless. Of course it was still exciting, just like the way we get excited on a roller coaster as it dips into a steep descent. Fear just adds to the overall thrill. The good, bad and ugly was all part of the fun and any of these elements missing might of just diminished its appeal.

I distinctly remember that following the resignation of my first job (why I was in the country in the first place) my reason for being there changed, and as a result so did my relationship with Shanghai. I was no longer there because I was working for a particular company but rather because I wanted to be. It was as if I was negotiating a new agreement with the city, and it was the first time I knew we weren't done with each other yet.

It was also the same time my visa was to expire. Thankfully those were also the days of the 'don't worry I know someone who knows someone' variety. Cowboy country business practices did have its advantages it seemed. After mailing my passport off to God knows where and who, as that's the way it was done (and incidentally, there are probably a thousand copies of my passport for sale in some remote Chinese city to this day) I received a freshly stamped visa from an out of the way province and stayed on.

Those moments of excitement continued as the months became years but as familiarity is the enemy of the new, they became less frequent. But that too was okay, as becoming used to a place allows you to settle in and gain a greater affection for it beyond the superficial type. Kind of like favourite shoes only really become your favourite after they've been worn in and proved their value to you over time. Not sure if Shanghai has ever been likened to a pair of shoes but there you go – the comfortable shoe of the east.

Life ticked on and eventually the oddness of someone carrying a zillion polystyrene crates on the back of a pushbike or the folk who would slow dance to a mix tape of 80s classics were just part of the everyday. And what an odd everyday that was. Also, to dismiss such things to others whose daily events were perhaps a little less unusual was always done with a note of hidden pride. All this was something to take for granted but less mouth gaping could perhaps mean there's a little less magic in your world.

However the annoyances would stay just as they always had and over time the deeper issues were harder to dismiss with a mere nod of the head. The loud spitting or scream-talking at 6am were just deserving of a snigger or eye roll but it was the disengagement everyone had towards each other that grated. It was a society that was growing up and maturing yet they were not getting the most important thing right. They just couldn't be nice to each other.

Receptionists would barely grunt a response to couriers on business, beggars would target foreigners as they were a softer touch, and on the road, well, it was every man, woman and child for themselves regardless of whether that was a footpath or road you happened to be on. It was this inability to put yourself in someone else's place, this lack of empathy that was most disturbing. And we were all subjected and encouraged to this mindset to a degree as our differences from socio-economic grounds to our beliefs and even where we came from were emphasised. Then throw in a dose of patriotic nationalism from time to time and you don't have the making of a superpower, more like a collection of bickering states.

We went from the oversized cowpoke town to the sophisticated megamegalopolis – the fashion capital, business capital, everything but a fast Internet capital of the east. Strange that even with those ambitions it was still wanting to be the east version of everything rather than just being something in it's own right. That was the other problem. The lack of invention and creativity pretty much gave me a job for life if I wanted one but that lack of creativity was also like restricting an oxygen supply.

You know, apparently this interwebs thinggie all the kids are into is rather nifty, it lets you stay connected to the world without having to set foot into any of it. Wonderful for those who had to do so by proxy but it is just not the same as living in a creative environment where inspiration comes from all sorts of weird and wonderful places triggering all sorts of responses. It was prevalent in all aspects of life and especially true in a professional sense that gloomed over my work days. The best inspiration for advertising isn't necessarily advertising but that literalness is the grease that spins many wheels of that particular industry. Great for advertising award entry formulas, not so successful in relating and inspiring consumers.

But as it grew, China hosted those right of passage events that signalled a move from the developing and into the developed world. That's despite crying rurally poor and justifying a cheap currency and inability to adhere to climate control legislation, while the ruling elite pockets obscene amounts by the way. The was, is, and will be of contradiction is the only definition that will remain in time here. It's a grey area that allows varying interpretation and wiggle room.

The Olympics was a rebooting of sorts in terms of its foreign population. Enough with the ad-hoc shenanigans and lets just see what's hiding under the rugs could have been the official slogan of this spring cleaning like purge, ahem, initiative. Shop fronts started to conform to a uniform look, pirate DVD stores changed how they did business: false walls were constructed, separating the supposedly legitimate Chinese titles from the far from legit foreign ones. When a visiting foreigner walked in, the shop assistants would smuggle you in as if it was a clandestine underground organisation and you were only ever going to surface again in another province.

And in Beijing in particular, it was the point it jumped the shark. Out with the old and in with the new had always been a rather popular anthem and it was definitely exercised more than a few times with the coming event. The old in this case was more than a handful of neighbourhoods that gave that city its personality. There were palaces and temples that provided links to a ceremonial and grand past but the link to a much more human one was severed.

However, it wasn't a 21st century city and was in sad need of updating and infrastructure in order to cater to the needs of a blossoming middle-class. If of course you could call growth in a grey haze of factory spewing and car exhaust blossoming but thats what was happening, and more importantly, desired. It was time to be taken seriously by the outside world. Yes, it wasn't happening to that extent in my city but it was the attitude of progress at all costs, at the removal of what made me think those enjoyable thoughts of belonging a couple of years earlier. Besides, Shanghai's old neighbourhoods were still being erased, it was just over a longer time frame rather than in one fell swoop. with that, my two or three visits a year to the capital ceased being something worthwhile. And eventually ceased all together.

In that time we all had to re-establish our credentials to China. We had to have a legitimate reason to be there and where the daring do of my visa issuing friends were consigned very much to history (although I more than strongly suspect they're still in business, just in another guise or paying off the right person). And so in true Chinese fashion; no ifs, no buts, you had to return to your home country and reapply for a visa in order to return. It was as complex as 'Next, stamp, there you go' but as with may things it was simply a matter of principle and process.

Then it was Shanghai's turn with the Expo and with that an influx of new foreigners. Young ones. But then again isn't everybody the older you get? China became the place to park employment emerging children as the western world suffered for its greed and irresponsibility. It was the greatest expo ever held in any universe, in any dimension by the way. The government had the attendance figures to prove it. You see, that was the only way to judge – via some sort of number or another. Just like a touring DJ only gained credibility when there was a magazine ranking next to their name. After thousands of years of continuous culture, countless inventions and achievements and yet nobody knew what was good until somebody else told them it was.

Shanghai in particular became an easier employment option and many took that option up. It was becoming sophisticated – as any downtown French run bakery would attest to be a mark of civilisation. But as more people flocked, divisions arose. No longer being small enough in numbers to be merely content with being foreign in a big place, people were beginning to define themselves in their subgroups: the overseas born Chinese, the Americans, Singaporeans, left-handed gay men, women who could whistle, Elves from Rivendell, you get the idea.

Sometimes there were stories of tensions. Sometimes abuses from those who were guests in the city yet felt it was their right to do what they wanted. And sometimes there were petty acts of aggression in return, of slashed bike seats or even fights. Fisticuffs at high noon in the wild east. It was kind of like the behaviour of the margins and borderlands; when populations encroach on each others spaces. Perhaps it was the type of characters drawn to the place. Shanghai is a siren, singing songs where anything is possible and if you want you could even re-invent yourself. The go-getters were welcome but they also tend to be an aggressive breed and prone to bouts of idiocy. Of course that's not to say it had a monopoly of cretins but in what was really the size of a small community sometimes it felt as if it had cornered the market.

It takes time to understand that not every place is like the one you had just come from. Thanks to a vastly different history there was a different take on life that a shared interest in Louis Vuttoin, the NBA, or the collected works of Disney didn't necessarily change. Globalisation allowed the love of the same things to develop but it didn't necessarily mean those things were loved for the same reason. It was all in the details. This was just not being understood by a larger number of people, as a safety in numbers of your type of thinkers doesn't force you to seriously consider the alternative.

After eight years, this was where my city and i saw each other. It was a comfortable relationship. We knew our likes and dislikes, forgave our imperfections and were happy to just tick along that way. But that wasn't quite it; no, it never really is. Just like the city itself, while all looked well enough on the surface it was less than ideal, less than whole, underneath. There was a hollowness within my social and work life that tinted everything like a dark lens.

That of course could have been the polluted air in front of my face before I sucked it down to my lungs. At first the thick greyness hanging in the air and cutting visibility to just what lay across the road was all part of the crazy fun of newness but I stopped laughing when I was regularly visited by the tonsillitis fairy. You know the one: it turns up in the middle of the night, smacks a fever into your head and attempts to turn your throat inside out. And unlike the tooth fairy, doesn't even have the decency to leave any money. I had the entire routine down: at the first sign of symptoms I'd be at the hospital like an experienced hypochondriac with a drip in my arm. And if it wasn't the air that might get you that other little necessity, food, could do you in if you chose the wrong places to shop (or in most local cases didn't have an option). Lives were still cheap here with money to be made on anything and anybody, and without any consumer regulatory body it was all just turning into one big game of 'dare'.

Perhaps the entire ploy was to just get us to spend more time in the safety of our office environment. It was clever as we all certainly fell for it, spending way more time there than necessary to get any sensible task done. But of course, many times these were no sensible tasks. In many instances these were to educate clients in a process, or to pander to the whims and egos of those interested in promoting their own fame just as much as Product X.

Without the novelty of newness, work did not live up to what it should have been. And besides, my face's ethnicity was limiting my future potential and a life of working behind the scenes was not enough of an option. Fate also didn't place a significant other on my lap (dancing preferably but in whatever guise would have been fine) and so lap free, there was nothing tying me there – or even to any bedposts for that matter.

But friends... Well, they were not short of supply. Just as there were many who wouldn't fuss over their fellow citizen there were more who would go out of their way to make a foreigner feel at home. One of the most difficult things with living in such a different society was the greater degree of dependence you attributed to your friendships. Or perhaps that hopelessness was just me as I tend to always look for help when my shoelaces unravel. Sometimes I would need assistance in reading documents, dealing with real estate agents, or even asking why something was the way it was – things traditionally unnecessary. Of course it wasn't a matter of continuously asking dumb ass questions on my part, just the occasional lame one, but these were always taken with an air of willingness to help from both locals and other foreigners. These connections kept a fair degree of sanity in the adventure and were no doubt a reason to keep me there longer.

I could have simply brushed whatever niggling doubts I had under the carpet, as was my housekeeping Ayi's method of cleaning by the way, and just continued allowing those years to continue to tick on but I know I would have just been selling myself short. And for someone who embraces change like they embrace a cactus – slowly and cautiously – it was difficult to call it quits as Shanghai was just too seductive a mistress to simply turn your back on. You know by breaking it off you probably won't be friends.

Ultimately, it's an unreal world; kind of like living on the moon or in space. With enough time you adapt to this but the down side is that you're no longer conditioned for life on earth. There's nothing wrong with either but after a while you can no longer choose, becoming like a Chinese passport holder with limited mobility but with a slightly greater chance of critiquing the ruling party without being thrown in jail. And as excellent as that consolation prize might be, it's just shy of being enough.

2004 felt like a different world to the one I faced in 2012. As I tell time via technology, I arrived with a new thumb drive of 256mb and left with hard drives of 2tb; new TVs were a whopping 15cm thin; and Facebook was two separate words. I always suspected time ran differently there. Kind of like having its own version of dog years. We associate and fall in love with a when just as much as a where and perhaps over time it's the when we long for most as the where will always be there in some form or another. The when is the fleeting one, the delicate one that's more valuable as once it's past it can never be recreated. That was my Shanghai when and it's something I'll always treasure as I prepare for a new where and when to make myself at home.

Confessions of a fashionista

So there I was, feeling self-conscious about my new hat and that it was giving me the appearance of a balloon head. At first it felt like the right thing to do, the right thing to wear with a sun outside exposing itself like a flasher and announcing that summer still had a bit of bite. 

Still, I wasn't fully convinced about my hat. It was a Singapore purchase, made of material perhaps more at home on a piece of furniture then my head. And with a cream linen suit, would have given me that colonial overlord look I'm always trying to go for. 

It wasn't until I was approached by a French girl that I placed all my bulbous head misgivings aside and embraced the look I had decided to soft rock (like one of those inevitable overly emotionally charged power ballads from a rock band with way too much hair and the wrong sex to be wearing latex) that day. I mean, she was French and they know stuff about fashion right? Hmm, that Italian bloke down the street just gave me those Sicilian eyes of death – I think he knows what I just wrote. Also, she was a woman and pretty much most guys feel validated when a completely random member of the opposite sex spring out of nowhere and comments positively on your clothing.

She announced (yes, announced) was a fashion editor of one of those magazines for expats that are littered around the city. They generally tell us what's going on in town – where the Romanian trance DJ who's number 68th in the world is playing; what new American style burger cafe has opened; and which pretty party goers were photographed at a party you weren't invited to. And without them we'd be lost, destined to sit at home in the dark, gently rocking in the corner.

Anyway, it's a mag not recognised in the least bit for its fashion but as she liked my style, offered to feature me in a spread (maybe as my hat head was too big for just one page) in their 'style' section. I gave her a decisive, "Hmm, maybe," and I received her card for my trouble.

In the day or so I had to decide I found myself clutching an old issue of that particular magazine and the fashion spread in question. It really was a spread with the subject taking up way too much paper real estate for my liking. Basically, it was a large photo of person in question in their preferred look that I would assume would best represent them, with inset shots of a second outfit and a candidly posed behind the scenes photo of them on the shoot. Usually laughing at nothing while perched on a stool, as stool perching does bring out the funny in everyone.

It had all the finesse of a budget clothing catalogue and no matter who was featured, they seemed to come across in a lovely loser/try hard combo. And as that was already the look I was going for I thought I didn't need any help in that department.

Thoughts crossed my mind: was it wrong to bring my own stylist? Perhaps even photographer? Can I refuse a particular look? But the worst thing was they give you a cutesy nickname like 'The Adman' or better still 'The Madman'. Hear that sound? That, guys and gals is the sound of skin crawling. But I suppose It's all still better than the old foreigners dressed in charming mockery of local fashion, such as wearing pyjamas or red guard uniform. 

A couple of years ago the style on the street had a distinct local flavour – stocking socks were all the rage for girls no matter what else they wore and some sort of hip-hop, that's not quite hip, look for the gentleman about town. And you could easily spot the Chinese who didn't quite call Shanghai home through their choice of clothing. Now it's different as they take their fashion cues from everywhere. The ones that haven't changed are the migrant workers performing much needed manual labour. 

They're a link to another time – as if you were looking at photos from the turn of the 20th century in the west with men labouring in layers of clothing, almost everything they had – and topped off with a dark blazer of some type. I suppose in the mag they too would be given a chummy nickname of sorts. 

Needless to say, although I'll say it anyway, I declined the offer. I also haven't worn the head extending hat again, but then again, the season is young.

Whipping boy

It was a routine journey; the old airport, maglev 300kph magnetic train, taxi combo back to the apartment. Pretty standard and one that's been experienced for what at least feels like a ga-jillion times. My view of the evening Shanghai skyline looming over either side of the raised highway kept me distracted. Definitely a Blade Runner experience where all it needed was a couple of hover cars and we'd be done. So as I contemplated replicants running amok in the city (as we all know we do) my usually speeding taxi slowed down to a crawl.

This in itself is not an unusual experience as I have discovered that cars do tend to slow from time to time – they even do so on highways built for speediness. This of course allowed me to indulge in a bit of a treat I like to call 'peek inside people's cars and see if they're up to anything more interesting than simply peeking into other people's cars'.

There were the usual suspects, the lone travellers dressed so normally inoffensive that they could just as well be heading home from a spot of overtime in the office as journeying out to a S&M gathering (as I would assume one would drive with the rubber outfit cloaked under a veneer of ordinariness – at least that's how I do it). There were the families: parents looking blankly out at the sea of twinkling red break lights in front of them while their children did the same with the screens before their faces. There were the taxis with their myriad of back seat passengers in ones and twos that no matter who they were or where they were going tended to look bored. And there were the workers: usually male, usually packed in a cabin of a van or truck and usually staring out back at me, as I suspected they liked playing the same game.

Then I saw it. It was a rear window crammed with stuffed toys of varying sizes and shapes, with the only thing in common being their supposed cute factor. Every centimetre was taken, almost as if allowing for each of the stuffed puppies, rabbits and what-have-yous a clear view of the road behind. As I was in the slightly less crawling lane my taxi was able to slowly pass this wonderful playroom of a car and as it did I was hoping I could at least catch a glimpse of the person behind the wheel. I mean, who would be proudly displaying their fuzzy friends? My money was that there was a five-year-old behind the wheel.

They were a young couple. Old enough to drive, possess a car and be on their way to somewhere but young enough to make it unlikely the posse of stuffed fabric riding with them were for children's use. And as the David Attenborough in me kicked in to dissect and document the minutiae of this habitat I couldn't help but notice the predominantly feminine nature of the creatures and their pinkish dominated colour hue.

Basically, it was a chick's car and her boyfriend was driving. Happily driving mind you. He had the look of a man who had come to terms with his role in this mobile female world and was there to drive little miss Daisy and her friends wherever she so desired. Perhaps these directions were given in a voice pitched just a little too high beyond the normal range, giving it a faux-child sound. Just like the countless radio commercials you tend to hear when trapped in these highway jams where the role of children are usually played by women. It may have been some sort of regulation once upon a time perhaps but they're not fooling anyone into believing anything but that they're an adult playing a child. Regardless of the pitch, his response would most likely be, "Yes."

Welcome to Shanghai man. He is legendary in the annuals of Chinese pop and traditional culture as being the forever henpecked. The man who only qualifies as one due to the fact he stands when he pees. He is the other half to the fairer sex. Where 'fair' tends to mean: I'm the boss mofo, so what are you going to do about it?

This Shanghai couple dynamic has done the rounds of stories from ancient tales of yore (a lovely little spot off the road to Beijing) all the way to the interweb. The folks up north are particular scathing, as to them the men are men and the women do as their told. Nobody has really said that openly to any woman up there for fear of receiving a smack in the mouth for their trouble. Mr. Mao once said that chicks held up the sky. You don't want to mess with that, that's important business this sky holding but now that I think about it he may have been referring to baby chickens.

Anyway, the good peeps of China's other provinces reckon Shanghainese dudes are wimps. And the way they decide to fight this cultural equivalent of a gloved slap before a duel is to defend their wimpy ways. Perhaps it's in order to not upset their wives. Apparently the most vocal advocates claim to love doing the cooking and washing. They may or may not have stated that fact while casting nervous glances to their other, and most definitely better, half who would stare back at them with piercing laser eyes.

It all comes down to history they say. And in a land simply dripping in, they tend to say that a lot. Due to the foreign influence (or was that domination? I get those two confused) of the early 20th century, service industry jobs were in greater demand so women became breadwinners. The roles cast, this dynamic was copied by their children, and so on... and voila! But apparently a fair bit now has to do with the overemphasis of education and a fondness for sedentary pursuits like computer games, watching bootleg DVDs and the rather macho collecting of anime figurines. So at the end of it all, you may have a masters at applied accountancy, a working knowledge of the 'Transformers' movie series and an inability to wear pants. Even ones with a low-riding crotch. Lederhosen, perhaps.

Now Shanghai man sees it a little differently and that he was simply man enough to step into a role that was left over and needed to be filled. And as a result he simply sees the rest of his fellow Chinese fellows as cavemen incapably of pleasing their cavegirls.

Well, it seems that now these guys are having the final laugh as they're in demand like a good xiaolongbao. There's increasingly good press on their gentle, giving nature (like a tame deer perhaps) that some women from different parts actually seek them out. 

And why wouldn't they? First you have your basic good behaviour on display such as door opening and a lot of "After you" or "You first" at social occasions. Then there's the simple consideration of another's well-being, which is becoming a rarer commodity in the land that's supposed to be taking over the world in the coming years. But then it becomes more interesting with the common sight of hand bag carrying – which allows the girlfriend/wife to conduct her business of walking down the street hands-free. And there's the paying of bills at a very, very early stage in the relationship – that is, when she hasn't taken possession of his cards all together.

I had one friend who would look forward to getting his hands on a new piece of technology –usually with a prefix of an 'i' – but not for himself, for his girlfriend so then he can get her older phone. Then I learned it was not uncommon for girlfriends to have control of a guy's social media profiles so she can keep a virtual eye on his virtual goings on. Not really sure if it worked both ways but I always thought that was bringing the generally disliked censorship culture just a little too close to home but whatever rocks your pink Hello Kitty socks I suppose.

These are thoughtful men. Perhaps little bastions of light in an increasingly darkening society of self-centredness. They have to do what they can to secure a woman in a outnumberedly male society and these girls certainly know their value. So it's piggybank, pack mule, driving my toys duty for you young man.

Token white guy

It's a role I've played here and quite frankly it's one all foreigners take on at some point whether we know it or not. We're used (in many cases so subtly it's not of any great consequence or even really offensive) to help portray the image of an open and increasingly international society. Pretty much along the lines of, "Hey look! We have white people!"

So this white peep has had two brushes with China fame. Oh, don't get me wrong here, it's not anything like real fame and there's no way I'm counting it in my Andy Warhol 15 minutes I'm owed.

Brush number one happened when I happened to wander into a rather cool clothing store – you know, the ones where there's stuff to see but nothing to buy. And on the way out of my non-purchasing visit – as didn't want the hot pink crotch down to my ankles pants for some reason – I was stopped by a young guy.

I say 'stopped' but it was more of a timid gesturing to a camera a second guy had slung around his neck and was holding up to me as proof. Whether that was proof of his ability to take photos or that he had a neck, I wasn't sure. Either way, I would have much preferred proof of a cheque of a sizeable sum in his hand but whatever.

So as a result, I appeared in a street magazine – unfortunately not in the 'Super best people ever to grace the city' section but rather 'random people on the street. And on reading the text under the image I realised that after all this time I had my name and age all wrong. So hi everyone, my name's Jackie and I'm 26. And for added measure, the picture itself wasn't all that.

It was for a Taiwanese television commercial for some sort of children's product (obviously not entirely particular about contract details as that's all I can tell you about it. That and I think they own my internal organs and my first-born child). My role was one of the token white designers of said memorable products. I ended up being centred, flanked on either side by other foreigners.

It was the end sequence of the ad and all we needed to do was stand proudly with arms crossed and facing camera. Even I couldn't stuff that one up but I never did see the end product so I'll never really know for sure.

These were adventures of a particular type but not quite like the fake businessman gig. Again, it's about the perception of the connection a company has as white faces are generally seen as good for business. There have been stories of expats being asked to play parts of managers. They simply dress the part and propped up in front of a computer, spend the day watching films on its screen. They even receive their own business card as proof – and we all know how accurate these are in China.

However there are limits in how token foreigners are allowed to be seen. While it's all very well to have your showpiece ___________ (insert nationality here) for face value, uncle China always likes to maintain that the tokenism in the role stays token. The control freak corporation running the show have always had a bad time of the barbarians at the gate so they'd like to keep that distance to interact but not be part of mainstream culture. As always, our proper place is behind the gate.

Not so long ago an American guy achieved some success on a dating show but found that at the time of airing, his segment was censored out. You see, the problem was that he was just too successful and ended up charming his way to a date with one of the money focused, vain beauties on the show. But nobody told him that that was not the way you play the game. Well, not here anyway.

The proper result would have been to bow out – like a number of other white dudes before him. A kind of, 'thanks but you're just not good enough' type of deal. To the officials, that's entertainment.

Somehow I don't think I, or my alias Jackie, have anything to worry about in terms of being anything but token. Unless of course you're involved in some sort of children's product business in Taiwan, then I'm a big deal. I'll show you my business card.

Foreign devils

Every so often China does a bit of a foreigner spring clean. You know, tidy up the place a little, check under the rugs and those neglected corners and give it a good old once-over. Those it finds who are here illegally are placed on the next plane home. No life lines, no phone a friend, probably not even a good-bye for your trouble.

Apparently it's a coincidence that there had been two highly public westerners gone wild incidents that had grabbed the public's attention.

First there was the Russian musician placing his bare feet on a train seat besides a woman's head and swearing at her when she objected. Hopefully they weren't bare on the journey there as I've seen what ends up on the streets here and quite frankly anything less than platform shoes wrapped in industrial thickness garbage bags and soaked in alcohol solution is just not far enough to keep away from it. 

Perhaps he was more of a polite slob and revealed his feet in the comfort of the train carriage. One may never know... actually one may, but one really doesn't care enough to do so. Anyway, he was probably rather proud of his feet and wanted to share this best feature with the world. I know what that's like as I feel that way about my left knee and insist I'm not at my best unless it's exposed. I mean, why wouldn't you want potentially stinking feet centimetres from your face? She overreacted and deserved to be scolded – in Chinese too mind you.

Like I always say, if you're going to insult someone make sure they understand you. Apparently witnesses commented on his rather vast vulgarity vocabulary although they were quick to add that his pronunciation was a bit off.

So Mr. Feet, the government has voted you off the island.

The other was a more serious matter, where a drunk British man (with apparent mental issues) attempted to sexually assault a local girl on a Beijing street. Locals stepped in and beat him up, leaving him bloody in the process. It was said that he had a history of lecherous behaviour on public transport. You know, the old attempt to flirt with any of the female gender only to have them think the drooling, goggle-eyed look more scary than sexy. That approach doesn't work for me either.

On a side note: as is no doubt the case, it's not so much an issue of a dastardly nationality but rather a gender at work here. Last week there was an article about police catching an ejaculator on the subway. Yeah, you read correctly; all over a poor woman's leg. The only thing western about his was the direction the train was heading.

Just like most moments in our constantly connected world, these incidents were filmed and posted online where they generated millions of views and comments. Of some of the most aggressive comments we have to attribute to a TV presenter.

Kind of funny but not in a ha-ha way as his usually pleasant mug can be seen on the official English language channel chatting it up with some of the lamest (when not irrelevant) questions to the who's who of unknown foreigners doing some sort of stuff in China. That's basically all it consists of: if you're a foreigner doing stuff he wants to sit across a table from you for a little chitchat action.

By the way, it's a great television channel if you're suffering from too much stimulation and need a good ol' dose of boredom. Too much of it though and you're sure to slip into a coma. Anyway, apparently he has a slightly different voice online – xenophobic psychopath might be the closest term. Kind of like what you're reading now.

He ranted about foreign trash stealing Chinese jobs and innocent girls; that is, when they're not spying for their home country. You know, it was like he was looking into my own heart when he wrote that. Just call me out by name next time.

Maybe it was a coincidence but a 100 day crackdown of foreigners living or working illegally in China began in Beijing and locals were encouraged to report on their foreign neighbours. It was like 1970 all over again. I of course dobbed on my American neighbours upstairs due to all the anti-foreigner excitement. That will teach you for murdering songs while you stamp around like epileptic monkeys.

A couple of weeks later it was Shanghai's turn, where a popular foreigner frequented bar street saw the immigration police enter into the most popular establishment and check everyone's papers. Emails were passed around the office to ensure we all had our documents in order and have a copy with us at all times to avoid a trip to the local station.

Actually, it was really only a moment of hysteria as perhaps not wanting to appear too draconian, the rhetoric died down as quickly as it arrived. Now we're back with the odd random image of foreigners in the local paper just standing around and, well... looking foreign. Add any general caption like 'today is forecast to be a scorcher' with a photo of a a white guy in shorts and presto: an international city that welcomes all. With the right papers that is.

Developing a taste for the poisonous

We thought it all started with the melamine milk scare in '08. Ahh, '08: the Olympics were upon us, foreigners were subject to random inspections in order to prove their visa legitimacy, and China's athletes were the best so you definitely could chuck out the rest. Glory days. Perhaps not if you were an infant. So when the beans... er, milk was was spilled, the world became acquainted with Chinese food safety regulations.

Those of us in this sometimes Twilight Zone alternate reality bubble we call Shanghai had enough suspicion to not look too entirely shocked by the revelation.

You see, this wasn't the start of a string of events, but more like just another of a long line of befores and afters. The life of Chinaland runs in a dual parallel – the one you see on the news and the other, more interesting one, that bubbles under the surface. Sometimes that hidden subterranean one pokes its head up and it's either beautiful or ugly, depending on the why, who, when and where of it all.

We kind of had our doubts that the regulations weren't as A for Awesome as they (now say that in a hushed tone as you sneak a look both left and right) would have liked us to believe. The fake eggs with no nutritional value kinda, sorta gave it away. Nice with a bit of fake bread and tea in the morning but that's besides the point.

A good number of us who might have frequented the odd Shanghainese bar have experienced the lax regulations through the consumption of fake alcohol. At one time or another our vodka or whiskey had more in common with lighter fluid than anything the labels suggested. A drink or two later and you feel like you've drained the contents of a bottle of turpentine and tomorrow's brunch is a no go.

Now you pretty much can't peruse a copy of that journalistic bible Shanghai Daily without coming across a new scandal involving someone substituting food with poison. I mean, it's an easy mistake to make, one I've often done myself. Every time I'm short on flour when making scones I tend to throw in a handful of fertiliser as a substitute.

One day tainted milk was all the rage and then the next it was replaced by diseased pig bacon; pork sold as beef after soaked in a detergent additive to alter its white colouring to something mooier; arsenic-laced soy sauce, of which I'm still unsure if it's gluten free or not; colouring added to old steam buns to make them look new, like a tired house with a fresh lick of paint I suppose; The classic glow in the dark pork – perfect for dining in the dark; and everyone's favourite, good old gutter oil (where substandard cooking oil illegally collected from gutters or sewerage drains is then sold to restaurants) which is probably not a lesson in recycling we all should emulate.

These all took their turns at becoming the new black of food scandal fashion.

Blame it on the rising cost of living and the need to cut corners in order to make money, perhaps even be a matter of survival for the perpetrator and the victim alike. It's no surprise then of the fondness of octagons here – as it's really just a square without corners.

But really, it all just reeks of supervillainy plotting at its finest. Tainting the city's food supply? Holy poisoned macaroni Batman.

Don't know about you but I suppose an alarm bell should have rang somewhere when a guy named Doctor Evil was brought on board at the Department of Quality Control. Sure, there might have been a bit of a cyanide issue at his last place of employment but his references were a-okay. And besides, he's a funny guy.

It's a filter down kind of deal where the ones who yet again pay the dearest price are the poorer members of society; the ones who have less to spend and less choice. The lives of the masses are still cheap here but that becomes a more difficult game to play as the mass become just that little bit more middle-class. However, now it's getting to the point that you feel no one is really safe – perhaps just different degrees of unsafe.

Now we pack our shopping in a trolley of paranoia as with any supplier potentially at fault, you're not really clear. Japanese or European typefaces on products might help. Might. The increasing concern of the ex-pat bubble world is to locate that holy grail of a safe food source. There are claims boasting of organic this and that, and in actuality nobody really knows. The bloke down the street thinks he knows someone who knows, but he's lying. Truth be told, if there's a buck to be made even formaldehyde would be considered organic here.

My meagre intake of street food has become meagre-er, as well as my local shopping experience. Although I still might pop in for the odd intense stare from a pyjama-clad shopper as I can't deny myself all of life's little pleasures. Of course by buying more expensive products I might just be paying more for the privilege of eating death food. Well, we are all equal after all under our big red flag but I'm lucky enough to have a choice and shop online.

It's become a bit of a challenge: you know, of the 'what doesn't kill me makes me stronger, or glow in the dark' variety. Or perhaps more like a game of pork roulette – where I must see if I can select the non-cancerous porky part when faced with the choices at the supermarket. Yeah, the type of local market where you can poke and prod the piggy pieces, pick it up and while waving it around, discuss its overall potential with the butcher. Oh, and all while cradling a smouldering cigarette in the corner of your mouth.

This would seem rather unappetising but unfortunately, when stacked against some of the other alternatives this might be a tastier option.

The longer I stay the dumber I get

The western woman at the restaurant (not expensive enough to be a restaurant by the way but that's the type of establishment I tend to establish myself in) who called over the waitress on the pretence to ordering what she wanted for lunch. Instead, she decided to ask about what seemed to be everything on the menu. In Chinese. Because she could.

It was a show-offy practice of check me out, I'm a foreigner speaking fluent Chinese. I just wanted to poke her eye out with a toothpick. And if you're reading this lady I mean it. Fight in the apartment compound at 3… bring your toothpick. You're going down.

I've decided to unlearn Chinese. Actually, it's a fair deal easier than learning it in the first place so let's just cut out the middle ground here and revert back to general ignorance. And as we know, it's bliss.

Well that doesn't sound like that much of a different plan for me considering I've been on a steady unlearning English regime since I arrived here. I suppose it's about high time I simply went public and really embrace it. I might even revert to grunts and nods pretty soon. Maybe emoticons. Copywriting could pose a problem but as they say, nobody reads copy anyway.

I can give you a gazillion reasons why I haven't followed in the footsteps of my looking for a toothpick in the eye friend. They're all well rehearsed and over-used. My environments are still very much western; I don't get to practice much; there's no time for learning; I'm as smart as a four week old chimp; yadda, yadda, yadda. The simple fact is that these excuses are... duh, excuses. Valid ones, sure. But reasons for not doing, nonetheless.

There was a tipping point, maybe at the three year mark. It was the realisation that try as I might I was not going to be a Chinese linguist. There was not going to be a moment when a room full of Chinese peeps were going to be chatting about Chinese stuff, there would be a lull in the convo and then I would break out into a monologue of pitch-perfect mandarin. It would be poetic, not to mention wittily insightful, and there wouldn't be a dry eye in the place. Oh well, it's a smile and an unfunny joke in English instead.

I arrived gung-ho (no, not on a Chinese fishing boat, as much as that may imply) and once I knew I was here – really here, unlike the 'let's see how it pans out' kind of here – I enrolled in lessons.

She was a former weightlifting champion, until a knee injury ended her career. Obviously that qualified her to become my language teacher. However, her methods revealed themselves to be a little too weightliftery for me: Here are your 20 new words that look completely foreign to you as it's not like a European language with common root words. Now, read them to yourself. Great. five minutes are up, so I'll test you now. Why don't you know those words?

Not surprisingly I graduated to a new teacher – one less likely to bench press me if I made a mistake. Things proceeded rather well for a while and the possibility of being able to string a couple of words, or even sentences, danced on the tip of my tongue. But unfortunately it never expelled out of my mouth. Well, certainly not like the projectiles at the end of a night when too much alcohol is consumed. What's really important though, is that I know how to say 'fax machine' in Chinese.

Anyway, work became an obstacle a little too difficult to overcome, so I had to choose between sleeping and studying. Sounds like a an excuse to me. And why, yes indeed it is. So as I come to terms with my my aphasia, the city has seen an increase in foreigners proficient in the language. The mystical arts as far as I'm concerned; right up there with alchemy and necromancy.

They usually pick up their mandarin from their home country or some lower-tiered city famous for once giving birth to the third wife of an ancient general. A great many of these interlopers newcomers appear as interns – trading in their lack of experience with a proficiency in the local tongue. Just as well, as they vie with locals for a number of their positions so they might as well be on an equal footing.

So as a result, gone are the days where the Chinese would marvel at the white guy who's sole claim to fame is that he can speak the language better than them. Roll up, roll up... gawk in amazement at Coco the two-headed lemur; Sparky, the combustable boy; and Rob, the Chinese speaking white guy. Once upon a time that's all it took but those golden days are gone as nonsense such as skills are needed. The world really has gone to shit.

Well, now I'm forgetting and let me tell you, it's all bliss. Phrases and words I used to know recede back into the blackness of memory where mental fingers grope for them but come up short. Oh well, it's goodbye to 'bear' and 'plant' as I suppose I didn't use you enough to keep you. But I'll always have you, my dear 'fax machine'.

I must admit, it's a little embarrassing and I find myself lying to those asking me how long I've been here. It's always three years. And even with that I'm sure they're thinking I've learnt the language at an insane asylum. Of course, you learn tricks over the years and the responses to questions you know will be fired your way. Problem is, I've had so many years of fake responding with those phrases that it sounds like I know what I'm talking about. This pretty much acts as an invitation for others to talk more. And faster.

In order not to come across as a complete dumb arse I do a bit of contemplative nodding and grunting. They see through it but we go on with our little charade until some point they ask, "You have no idea what I'm talking about do you?" To which I nod thoughtfully and respond with a heart-felt hmmm.

And somewhere along the line I realised that my emphasis has been all wrong. It's about the un-learning. That's where my my skills lay. You see, I'm like a special needs child learning but a jedi master when it comes to the unlearn. Might even create a school. Might not even stop at this language either as when it comes to unlearning you might as well go multilingual.