The problem with domestic help these days is that you have to do quite a bit of work yourself in order to get things done. Expats often ruminate about the good old days when help was, well, helpful. And we would do so usually after adjourning to the drawing room with a couple of brandies and cigars. You see, over here we're still partying like it's 1899.
Part of the China experience is to employ a local lady (always a lady, as the equality espoused by Mao didn't quite make it all the way to the domestic living room) to clean up after your incompetently messy self. They're all called Ayi, or 'aunty', supposedly to make it sound family-like but without a name there's still a degree of impersonal interchangeability in the title. I personally prefer to just call her 'servant'.
Oh, and by the way, when I say they're local I don't necessarily mean Shanghai local as not a lot of Shanghainese would like to be seen to be someone's domestic help. Instead, they're usually sourced from the nearby province of Anhui – which I suspect as being Ayi capital of of China, would be a pretty tidy place. So they come to the big smoke to make their money and for most, live a simple life here while sending money for their family back home.
Everyone seems to have an Ayi story and you usually hear the negative ones first. The stories of the ones who steal and move in when you're away. Or better yet, let in migrant workers to shower in your bathroom and help themselves to your products while the Ayi turns a profits. Well, that explains why I was going through so much shampoo last month.
So this usually requires a vetting process of recommendations and connections. Friends help you, through their own Ayi needing extra work or even if they know of someone back in the home province they can recommend. Yes, the Ayi network runs just like the mafia with members vouching for one another in order to join the family.
You can also inherit an Ayi when the revolving door of Shanghai life calls a friend back home or to other lands. I'm off, so here's my fake DVD collection, my lamp, satellite dish... and I tell you what, I'll even throw in my Ayi. As a matter of fact, that's how my household came to have an Ayi to call our very own.
A friend was leaving and wanted to find work for the sweet lady who had been with her for two years. And as she was already working for two other friends it seemed she was trustworthy enough to leave the house keys with. She was fine with cleaning but felt she couldn't deliver to the needs of western palates. Fine. So a deal was struck.
Since those sepia-tinted glory days when Shanghai had an outdoor market and a house move later, she's still there. It's a relatively easy job for her: two neat foreigners who never really see her and communicate via the odd note or phone call. Generally things run in automatic clockwork (not German precision clockwork mind you but clockwork of a sorts) but the calls and notes are for the bigger messages, when we've veered off our designated paths. Those are the times when a bit more clarity and understanding is needed.
There was one recent episode when a note was required due to the mystery of the missing crockery. From time to time a plate or glass would vanish, only to be realised at the time of need – you know, like you want to eat and there's no plate to set in front of you. Not a huge fan of eating directly off the table so an Ikea run (the necessary stopping station for all foreigners who need a few simple things after deciding to stay for a year to 'see how it goes' and end up anchored for a million years) was needed. Glasses replaced; plates replaced; bowls replaced; the odd tea spoon, and all was once again peaceful with the world.
However the following week, what was proudly once again six plates became five. My usual zen-like philosophical reaction to these sorts of situations is to fire Ayi – obviously after a couple of lashes – but a note in Chinese usually suffices.
So this is where the reliance on Chinese co-workers and friends comes in. Situations such as these expose the inadequacies of my existence here and the amount of incompetence I have chosen to take on living in this society. It does emasculate when a task that I would be usually more than competent (well, debatable) of performing becomes beyond my ability. Humility checked, a reliance on others does seem to make for a more neighbourly existence.
Of course, a little might be lost in translation from time to time but I suppose that's the price you pay. Let's take my situation with the missing plate for instance; yes, let's.
A chummy message of a bumbling polite reminder, something in the vein of: Sorry to bother you... You know, just wanted to let you know that on the odd occasion something kinda, sorta breaks (obviously not your fault of course). So if something like that should happen, please let us know and we'll do a spot of replacing even before you know it's gone :)
This somehow translated to something like: You're a liar! You've always been one and we have no doubt, will continue to be one! You're always breaking stuff with your clumsy sausage fingers and keeping it hidden. We know! We have eyes everywhere... like the enlightened government, and we see you... like that eye villain in Lord of the Rings. Stop lying and come clean! Admit you break everything so we know what to replace. Oh, and by the way, don't think you're not beyond a good flogging.
Kind of the same – just a little deviation on a couple of the details. And you know, as odd as you may think, a note such as this may not have been the right thing to pass on to a lady with a cheery smile and an ability to polish the floor to a mirrory lustre. A rewrite was required.
This was a toned down version of the previous one but contained just enough menace to have her resign in tears. This was message writing from a peace loving, veggie eating, karma believing Buddhist by the way. My go-to message writer. But even I was getting scared by these translations of warmth and kindness.
A third rewrite and I was feeling like a difficult client. It seems like we still couldn't shake all those allegations of lying. What was that about? Perhaps an ancient vegetarian vow of hatred and vengeance. Anyway, it became apparent that when you want something done get someone else to do it wasn't working, so I wrote the message myself.
I probably scribbled: Don't listen to my hands and you are fired for smiling. Have more money and I'll replace it but stop lying!
As that would explain the way she looks at me now.
11 October 2011
18 June 2011
On the road… again
The moment I spied the schoolgirls I knew what they were up to. They were at the kerb, eyes fixed vacantly somewhere in the middle distance and not watching the traffic, or even where they were going.
Yep, it was obvious they were going to cross the road.
Then, once they'd embarked on their mission they'd stop somewhere on the road, face the opposite direction and realised that that was the direction all those pesky cars were coming from.
And it's always a surprise; even if it's the road they cross every single day. It's like watching people trapped in their own Groundhog Day, doomed to relive their experiences until they learn to play the piano and woo Andie McDowell.
Strangely enough it's not confined to the youngsters – the meek inheriting the earth – but the oldies have their own approach. They pretty much continue on their stubborn way, with the cars, bikes, or whatever deftly weaving around them as if their age granted them ownership of the road.
Although my life pretty much consists of a 6x6 city block world, I feel I've got the entire Shanghai traffic situation sorted. Well, sorted to the point I have no intention of getting behind the wheel of anything smaller than a monster mining truck. Basically, if I can't crush I'm not interested.
My usual vantage point to view this odd urban ballet is the front seat of a taxi. This just happens to be one of the least desired positions on the Shanghai roads. However given the choice of that or the back seat, where a little screen blasts the crappiest ads at your face less than a metre away and an off button that's only for show, I'd take the 'view point of death' any time.
The taxi journey usually starts the same way: I reach over to put my seatbelt on, which usually elicits a no need from the driver – as if I was offending his driving prowess. I shrug, smile and inform him it's a habit. And then the real fun begins.
It's as if a film begins to play out in front of me, an unseen director had just yelled 'action!' and the actors come alive, around our careening car. (Oh and by the way, that's one of the standard Shanghainese driving styles – with others being lurching and crashing.) And let me tell you, it's a film specifically created to have you clutch your seat involuntarily, while you struggle to suppress the scream climbing up your throat.
You watch the pedestrians wander across the street wherever and whenever they like, occasionally stopping on the white lines between lanes as if these were what those little strokes were made for. There's nothing apologetic in these crossings as the people's roads belong to the people – regardless of mode of traffic.
It would be worse mind you without the metal barriers alongside the busier roads restricting them. These fence the pedestrians in like livestock but as it is, there are less points where a wanderer will take to a-wandering. And as I'm always fond of saying whenever there's a lull in the conversation: If you're going to act like livestock, you're going to get treated like livestock.
Then there are the bike riders of both the manual and motorised variety, who seem to enjoy tearing out of laneways and onto the road without a second glance. They'll cruise across an intersection whenever an opportunity arises, or whenever they become bored, or whichever comes first. This will even happen when a taxi makes a dash for the lights – because as we all know amber screams 'faster'.
That of course is when they're on the road as the footpath, as well as being inappropriately named, is really just another lane and naturally there's no need to slow down. That would just be silly.
Silly also comes to mind when you see a car stop in the middle of the road because the driver has suddenly found themself in the left lane with a desire to turn right. Obviously, regardless of the traffic, they'll cut across all the lanes to correct their error. Even if the road in question happens to be a highway.
These expressways are also places where motorists may stop on entering to check their bearings, or even in their lane to do a spot of text messaging. My personal favourite was witnessing a guy reversing the length of a few metres down the expressway as he had just missed his turn-off to the airport.
Parking does seem to be issue here as there isn't a great deal of it and what there is is being desired by an increasing number of motorists. So inevitably every trip requires detours around cars and trucks parked randomly – and you would even think illegally. Yes, you would think.
There is always a degree of efficiency in these parking locations as right out the front of where you want to go is where you want to park. So as a result, a school pick up usually results in a cluster of cars triple parked just outside the entrance and confused parents wondering why the trail of cars stretching down the road appear to be angry at them.
However the most ideal place that most people have decided to park is a pedestrian crossing. I mean, why not? The footpath gently slopes to the road, granting wonderful access to your passenger and it's usually unoccupied – unless someone else had the idea before you. Anyway, these white stripes are really only there to decorate the road, as most big cities seem to have them, and as nobody recognises the crossings as crossings we might as well park there.
And speaking of coming to a sudden stop, taxis do so wherever they're hailed. Middle of the road? Sure. Busy intersection? Why not. That doesn't seem to work with the buses but that's only because they have their designated stops.
As size equals power on Chinese roads these bad boys are the undisputed heavyweights and are all too happy to remind you. If they want your lane they'll take it, even if there's only enough room for an infant to crawl through. These are always best left alone as nothing good has ever come out of tackling a bus. They spend their time bulldozing everything in their path and may, or may not, honk you out of the way.
The trick is not to make eye-contact and pretend it never happened. Eye contact equals recognition of some sort of wrong-doing and even responsibility in rectifying the error. Well, that's just crazy talk so walk the roads blind it is.
Perhaps the increased traffic is a blessing in disguise, as it's harder to mow someone down at 2kph. Well, once upon a time (hmm, that time being 1989) there were apparently only 100 private cars on Shanghai's roads and now the highway outside Beijing can experience a nine day traffic jam. Nothing says progress quite like that.
What really is interesting is that as a country obsessed with numbers and being number one in pretty much everything. It's all about taking it to those that had a head start, the west, and rub their nose in supercoolgiveusallyourminerals China's success – they've scored the most Olympic gold and going for the top GDP stop.
There's one number one maybe they're not so keen on and that's the number of fatalities on the road. They've had that title since 1996 and still look strong to retain that one for a while.
What's interesting is that I would expect to see more go wrong, given the seemingly randomness of what goes on. Unfortunately I've had friends on two separate occasions be involved in accidents where they've ended up in hospital (and thankfully to recover. And every time I step into a taxi from the international airport a good distance away from the centre of town I watch my driver for any signs of drowsiness. I think my staring tends to freak them out.
You see, my time on the road has given me one valuable insight. Come closer, as it's one of those little tidbits you just can't go screaming from rooftops. You see, the traffic interplay simply reflects the greater China population interplay. There's a crazy self-centred ignorance that translates to a ridiculous disrespect towards their fellow comrades. It's actually so blatant I'm thinking of taking tour groups around to take this sight in.
Well, until the road safety education kicks in sometime in 2065 I think I'll keep using my taxi vantage point as a place to hone my Chinese swearing. Although I'm not entirely sure calling someone a 'stupid egg' is really menacing. That's what you get when you consult a vegetarian on such matters. I have to consult someone from Beijing, now they know how to swear… and eat meat.
Yep, it was obvious they were going to cross the road.
Then, once they'd embarked on their mission they'd stop somewhere on the road, face the opposite direction and realised that that was the direction all those pesky cars were coming from.
Strangely enough it's not confined to the youngsters – the meek inheriting the earth – but the oldies have their own approach. They pretty much continue on their stubborn way, with the cars, bikes, or whatever deftly weaving around them as if their age granted them ownership of the road.
Although my life pretty much consists of a 6x6 city block world, I feel I've got the entire Shanghai traffic situation sorted. Well, sorted to the point I have no intention of getting behind the wheel of anything smaller than a monster mining truck. Basically, if I can't crush I'm not interested.
My usual vantage point to view this odd urban ballet is the front seat of a taxi. This just happens to be one of the least desired positions on the Shanghai roads. However given the choice of that or the back seat, where a little screen blasts the crappiest ads at your face less than a metre away and an off button that's only for show, I'd take the 'view point of death' any time.
The taxi journey usually starts the same way: I reach over to put my seatbelt on, which usually elicits a no need from the driver – as if I was offending his driving prowess. I shrug, smile and inform him it's a habit. And then the real fun begins.
It's as if a film begins to play out in front of me, an unseen director had just yelled 'action!' and the actors come alive, around our careening car. (Oh and by the way, that's one of the standard Shanghainese driving styles – with others being lurching and crashing.) And let me tell you, it's a film specifically created to have you clutch your seat involuntarily, while you struggle to suppress the scream climbing up your throat.
You watch the pedestrians wander across the street wherever and whenever they like, occasionally stopping on the white lines between lanes as if these were what those little strokes were made for. There's nothing apologetic in these crossings as the people's roads belong to the people – regardless of mode of traffic.
It would be worse mind you without the metal barriers alongside the busier roads restricting them. These fence the pedestrians in like livestock but as it is, there are less points where a wanderer will take to a-wandering. And as I'm always fond of saying whenever there's a lull in the conversation: If you're going to act like livestock, you're going to get treated like livestock.
Then there are the bike riders of both the manual and motorised variety, who seem to enjoy tearing out of laneways and onto the road without a second glance. They'll cruise across an intersection whenever an opportunity arises, or whenever they become bored, or whichever comes first. This will even happen when a taxi makes a dash for the lights – because as we all know amber screams 'faster'.
That of course is when they're on the road as the footpath, as well as being inappropriately named, is really just another lane and naturally there's no need to slow down. That would just be silly.
Silly also comes to mind when you see a car stop in the middle of the road because the driver has suddenly found themself in the left lane with a desire to turn right. Obviously, regardless of the traffic, they'll cut across all the lanes to correct their error. Even if the road in question happens to be a highway.
These expressways are also places where motorists may stop on entering to check their bearings, or even in their lane to do a spot of text messaging. My personal favourite was witnessing a guy reversing the length of a few metres down the expressway as he had just missed his turn-off to the airport.
Parking does seem to be issue here as there isn't a great deal of it and what there is is being desired by an increasing number of motorists. So inevitably every trip requires detours around cars and trucks parked randomly – and you would even think illegally. Yes, you would think.
There is always a degree of efficiency in these parking locations as right out the front of where you want to go is where you want to park. So as a result, a school pick up usually results in a cluster of cars triple parked just outside the entrance and confused parents wondering why the trail of cars stretching down the road appear to be angry at them.
However the most ideal place that most people have decided to park is a pedestrian crossing. I mean, why not? The footpath gently slopes to the road, granting wonderful access to your passenger and it's usually unoccupied – unless someone else had the idea before you. Anyway, these white stripes are really only there to decorate the road, as most big cities seem to have them, and as nobody recognises the crossings as crossings we might as well park there.
And speaking of coming to a sudden stop, taxis do so wherever they're hailed. Middle of the road? Sure. Busy intersection? Why not. That doesn't seem to work with the buses but that's only because they have their designated stops.
As size equals power on Chinese roads these bad boys are the undisputed heavyweights and are all too happy to remind you. If they want your lane they'll take it, even if there's only enough room for an infant to crawl through. These are always best left alone as nothing good has ever come out of tackling a bus. They spend their time bulldozing everything in their path and may, or may not, honk you out of the way.
The trick is not to make eye-contact and pretend it never happened. Eye contact equals recognition of some sort of wrong-doing and even responsibility in rectifying the error. Well, that's just crazy talk so walk the roads blind it is.
Perhaps the increased traffic is a blessing in disguise, as it's harder to mow someone down at 2kph. Well, once upon a time (hmm, that time being 1989) there were apparently only 100 private cars on Shanghai's roads and now the highway outside Beijing can experience a nine day traffic jam. Nothing says progress quite like that.
What really is interesting is that as a country obsessed with numbers and being number one in pretty much everything. It's all about taking it to those that had a head start, the west, and rub their nose in supercoolgiveusallyourminerals China's success – they've scored the most Olympic gold and going for the top GDP stop.
There's one number one maybe they're not so keen on and that's the number of fatalities on the road. They've had that title since 1996 and still look strong to retain that one for a while.
What's interesting is that I would expect to see more go wrong, given the seemingly randomness of what goes on. Unfortunately I've had friends on two separate occasions be involved in accidents where they've ended up in hospital (and thankfully to recover. And every time I step into a taxi from the international airport a good distance away from the centre of town I watch my driver for any signs of drowsiness. I think my staring tends to freak them out.
You see, my time on the road has given me one valuable insight. Come closer, as it's one of those little tidbits you just can't go screaming from rooftops. You see, the traffic interplay simply reflects the greater China population interplay. There's a crazy self-centred ignorance that translates to a ridiculous disrespect towards their fellow comrades. It's actually so blatant I'm thinking of taking tour groups around to take this sight in.
Well, until the road safety education kicks in sometime in 2065 I think I'll keep using my taxi vantage point as a place to hone my Chinese swearing. Although I'm not entirely sure calling someone a 'stupid egg' is really menacing. That's what you get when you consult a vegetarian on such matters. I have to consult someone from Beijing, now they know how to swear… and eat meat.
22 April 2011
Deal or no deal
So I walk into the club, or is it a bar? Whatever. It's an underground establishment (physically as much as figuratively) as it began life as a bomb shelter. Rather inventively it's called 'Shelter' and it was opened to expand Shanghai's dirty (figuratively and perhaps a little physically) bar scene. Well, that now takes it to two places, so that scene is obviously rocking.
As it was just before midnight it wasn't busy so it was easy for the crowd and myself to check each other out. A guy propped up at the bar smiled and greeted me as if I was a long lost friend. I of course decided I must be more long lost than I realised as I didn't recall knowing him. He seemed friendly enough so I figured I'd be social. But I already knew what was going on here and just wanted to give him an opportunity to prove me wrong.
The way he would pretty much talk about nothing while continuously scanning the room told me he was there on business. And ladies and gentlemen, that business was drugs. I obviously looked like I was in need of a good time but that's where he was wrong – I was there for a sub-standard time and needed nothing.
There's something about drug dealers and me. Whether considered a buyer or seller there must be a drug dealer look that I seem to have down. This important piece of information obviously sits proudly in my CV and is part of my date conversation repertoire. Word of advice: women don't tend to like dating guys who can potentially be mistaken for a drug dealer and/or buyer. So perhaps don't try to sell them meth on the first date and no one needs to be the wiser. Besides, that's really second date behaviour.
My Chinese dealer association began in the Beijing bar district. Strangely enough, I found myself wondering the area in search of somewhere to have a drink one fine evening. It was pre-Olympic time, before Beijing underwent its city uglification gentrification of steel and glass. This was when dirty old laneways were permissible and that's where I found myself – a dirty old alley looking for alcohol.
Given that, perhaps my chances of encountering drug dealers had increased but then, they weren't easy to miss. They were the African guys standing at every turn and junction of the lane eyeballing every foreigner that came into eyeball range.
I knew I was being looked at with the promise of a narcotically good time shining in those eyes, however I chose to respond with the international sign of disinterest by acting, well, disinterested. It was only later when I found myself at the local fish and chip shop (yep, a chip shop in backward Beijing while Shanghai has no idea that placing these two delicacies together spell jackpot) I had the chance to chat with them.
Over a course of hot chips they divulged they were from Nigeria and had cornered a good part of the local market. Local for them being the ex-pat one – and French in particular. Perhaps the idea of being a particular nationality leads you to turn to drugs. But French? My money would have been on the Canadians as nobody can survive such spells of cold and really be that nice all the time.
Beijing seemed to offer them a thriving trade with little police interference. They had attempted to set up in Shanghai only to find it much more compact and densely populated. With the constant feeling they were being watched, they felt it best to return to where they knew how (and who) to navigate.
I found it odd that given the racial prejudices of some Chinese these Nigerians would be suspected of illegal activities based on appearance alone and had not found it harder to do business. It's not like they tried to make it a secret or anything like that. I mean, if I knew everyone would have known. Maybe they paid off the right people or perhaps they were the face of a larger organisation run by locals. It wouldn't have looked good to have officials or army folk on every corner doing the Nigerians' job, as after all, China is all about appearance.
However, at some stage there must have been a problem with the whole obviousness of the operation. Most likely due to local anger there was talk of a crackdown (I say 'talk' as in many cases it's about intention rather than actuality). Or perhaps the bars wanted their own piece of the action and took matters into their own hands. Either way, a while back the local club bouncers decided to get all hot and heavy, attacking any guy with dark skin.
Well, whatever it was, this action ultimately resulted in an altercation with a diplomat's son. Embarrassment ensured and whatever crackdown, that was unlikely anyway, most definitely didn't happen.
So when I returned to the area post Olympics, where shiny buildings and malls replaced dirty lanes, there were still Nigerian guys standing around. It seemed they were still positioned in the same places they used to be with everything altered around them, and if that happened to be in the middle of a lit walkway so be it.
In fact the only way they could have been more obvious would have been to shine a couple of spotlights on them. Don't know if all the urban alteration had made their life any easier, perhaps I'll ask my new friend the next time I see him – oh there'll be a next time all right – and ask if he knows.
As it was just before midnight it wasn't busy so it was easy for the crowd and myself to check each other out. A guy propped up at the bar smiled and greeted me as if I was a long lost friend. I of course decided I must be more long lost than I realised as I didn't recall knowing him. He seemed friendly enough so I figured I'd be social. But I already knew what was going on here and just wanted to give him an opportunity to prove me wrong.
The way he would pretty much talk about nothing while continuously scanning the room told me he was there on business. And ladies and gentlemen, that business was drugs. I obviously looked like I was in need of a good time but that's where he was wrong – I was there for a sub-standard time and needed nothing.
There's something about drug dealers and me. Whether considered a buyer or seller there must be a drug dealer look that I seem to have down. This important piece of information obviously sits proudly in my CV and is part of my date conversation repertoire. Word of advice: women don't tend to like dating guys who can potentially be mistaken for a drug dealer and/or buyer. So perhaps don't try to sell them meth on the first date and no one needs to be the wiser. Besides, that's really second date behaviour.
My Chinese dealer association began in the Beijing bar district. Strangely enough, I found myself wondering the area in search of somewhere to have a drink one fine evening. It was pre-Olympic time, before Beijing underwent its city uglification gentrification of steel and glass. This was when dirty old laneways were permissible and that's where I found myself – a dirty old alley looking for alcohol.
Given that, perhaps my chances of encountering drug dealers had increased but then, they weren't easy to miss. They were the African guys standing at every turn and junction of the lane eyeballing every foreigner that came into eyeball range.
I knew I was being looked at with the promise of a narcotically good time shining in those eyes, however I chose to respond with the international sign of disinterest by acting, well, disinterested. It was only later when I found myself at the local fish and chip shop (yep, a chip shop in backward Beijing while Shanghai has no idea that placing these two delicacies together spell jackpot) I had the chance to chat with them.
Over a course of hot chips they divulged they were from Nigeria and had cornered a good part of the local market. Local for them being the ex-pat one – and French in particular. Perhaps the idea of being a particular nationality leads you to turn to drugs. But French? My money would have been on the Canadians as nobody can survive such spells of cold and really be that nice all the time.
Beijing seemed to offer them a thriving trade with little police interference. They had attempted to set up in Shanghai only to find it much more compact and densely populated. With the constant feeling they were being watched, they felt it best to return to where they knew how (and who) to navigate.
I found it odd that given the racial prejudices of some Chinese these Nigerians would be suspected of illegal activities based on appearance alone and had not found it harder to do business. It's not like they tried to make it a secret or anything like that. I mean, if I knew everyone would have known. Maybe they paid off the right people or perhaps they were the face of a larger organisation run by locals. It wouldn't have looked good to have officials or army folk on every corner doing the Nigerians' job, as after all, China is all about appearance.
However, at some stage there must have been a problem with the whole obviousness of the operation. Most likely due to local anger there was talk of a crackdown (I say 'talk' as in many cases it's about intention rather than actuality). Or perhaps the bars wanted their own piece of the action and took matters into their own hands. Either way, a while back the local club bouncers decided to get all hot and heavy, attacking any guy with dark skin.
Well, whatever it was, this action ultimately resulted in an altercation with a diplomat's son. Embarrassment ensured and whatever crackdown, that was unlikely anyway, most definitely didn't happen.
So when I returned to the area post Olympics, where shiny buildings and malls replaced dirty lanes, there were still Nigerian guys standing around. It seemed they were still positioned in the same places they used to be with everything altered around them, and if that happened to be in the middle of a lit walkway so be it.
In fact the only way they could have been more obvious would have been to shine a couple of spotlights on them. Don't know if all the urban alteration had made their life any easier, perhaps I'll ask my new friend the next time I see him – oh there'll be a next time all right – and ask if he knows.
27 January 2011
Have good time
Most conversations you'd pretty much have at this time focus on the weather, or more specifically just how cold it is. How cold it is now, how it compares to how cold your country of origin gets, how cold our non-insulated apartments are, how much colder it is compared to last year. Got it, it's cold. It's that time of year between the western and eastern new years where it's kind of a new old year at the same time and there's nothing going on except the navel gaze of meteorological chit-chat.
You learn pretty early that winter is the harshest month here. A long time ago the peeps party degreed that anywhere south of the Yangtze river wasn't cold and therefore didn't warrant super-warm winter heating. Obviously nobody consulted me and as a result winters here lack a certain degree of indoor toastiness. My personal favourite is the restaurant that sees no problem at keeping things at 3 degrees above arctic.
But fear not, we all have air-con units. I'm sure these were bulk bought – oops, forgot where I was – made, and as a result we all have the same one. It's not so great at heating but extremely efficient at blowing deceases on everything. That is of course when it doesn't break down, usually on the coldest night possible.
So officially it's not cold so it stands to reason that it's also the season for unofficial colds and flus. Born in the polluted cesspool and brought to strength by the decease blowing units, these tenacious little menaces are a constant winter companion. These aren't the ones a couple of Codrils can hold at bay while you soldier on; no, a local product needs a local solution. And the only solution that matters here is the drip.
You walk into a local hospital, clinic, whatever and within 10 minutes there's a tube in your arm pumping antibiotics. Doesn't really matter what it is, the solution remains the same. Sore shoulder? Cut finger? Bug in the eye? Good God man, drip him!
I've become so deft at the old drip routine I know how to speed up the dosage so I'm out of there quicker – that too is a response of this city.
Another reason for the quick fix solution is to head off the shangflu before it becomes something more hardcore. In may case that's usually tonsillitis – weeks of feverishly good times with the added excitement of an infected throat closing at any time. Yep, complete awesomeness in the one illness. I've been warned that if it happens to me four times in a year out they'll have to come out. Try as I might, I've only been able to score two and a close call.
So you take the day off and it happens to coincide with the neighbour's renovation. Oh, and even if there's three floors separating you, it still sounds as though it's happening in the next room. Going into wok in a feverish haze always seems like the sensible option at these times. Besides, there's the chance to share the germs. Surely the same rules apply with colds as they do to songs stuck in your head – you can't rid yourself until you've passed it on. Well, in a communist country you're supposed to share around.
But it's not all whining and negativity as there are positives to the season, namely there's always the hope of snow falling if the conditions are right. It's the prettiest the city ever gets, probably because it's in disguise under its white blanket. And there we are, all snug as bugs underneath it – water seeping into Ugg boots and can't find a taxi for anything less than the price of your liver, but all's pretty.
Even better is the prospect of not venturing out at all and ordering McDonald's. Oh, I can feel those beady eyes of judgement burning a hole in my head right now. Stop your judgementalising people and give unappetising poison that can't even be diguised as food a chance. Besides, post 10.30 pm dinner at the office there's not much of a choice. Starvation is a viable alternative and most definitely the healthier option but there's just something it can't deliver.
You see, after placing your Mc Order the Mc Employee rounds out the conversation with this bit of Mc Magic: "Okay have good time bye.
That looming all nighter doesn't seem so bad when the Mc D's delivery person tells me to have good time. It reminds me of what's really important in this big blue world of ours. Cold outside? Forgetaboutit. Have good time bye. All work and no play getting you down? Whatever. Tell them all to have good time bye.
So there you go, winter's not so bad where at the end of a call you can feel a connection, a real connection that goes beyond pretend food and becomes all warm and gushy. So to all, wherever you may be, I wish you to have good time bye.
You learn pretty early that winter is the harshest month here. A long time ago the peeps party degreed that anywhere south of the Yangtze river wasn't cold and therefore didn't warrant super-warm winter heating. Obviously nobody consulted me and as a result winters here lack a certain degree of indoor toastiness. My personal favourite is the restaurant that sees no problem at keeping things at 3 degrees above arctic.
But fear not, we all have air-con units. I'm sure these were bulk bought – oops, forgot where I was – made, and as a result we all have the same one. It's not so great at heating but extremely efficient at blowing deceases on everything. That is of course when it doesn't break down, usually on the coldest night possible.
So officially it's not cold so it stands to reason that it's also the season for unofficial colds and flus. Born in the polluted cesspool and brought to strength by the decease blowing units, these tenacious little menaces are a constant winter companion. These aren't the ones a couple of Codrils can hold at bay while you soldier on; no, a local product needs a local solution. And the only solution that matters here is the drip.
You walk into a local hospital, clinic, whatever and within 10 minutes there's a tube in your arm pumping antibiotics. Doesn't really matter what it is, the solution remains the same. Sore shoulder? Cut finger? Bug in the eye? Good God man, drip him!
I've become so deft at the old drip routine I know how to speed up the dosage so I'm out of there quicker – that too is a response of this city.
Another reason for the quick fix solution is to head off the shangflu before it becomes something more hardcore. In may case that's usually tonsillitis – weeks of feverishly good times with the added excitement of an infected throat closing at any time. Yep, complete awesomeness in the one illness. I've been warned that if it happens to me four times in a year out they'll have to come out. Try as I might, I've only been able to score two and a close call.
So you take the day off and it happens to coincide with the neighbour's renovation. Oh, and even if there's three floors separating you, it still sounds as though it's happening in the next room. Going into wok in a feverish haze always seems like the sensible option at these times. Besides, there's the chance to share the germs. Surely the same rules apply with colds as they do to songs stuck in your head – you can't rid yourself until you've passed it on. Well, in a communist country you're supposed to share around.
But it's not all whining and negativity as there are positives to the season, namely there's always the hope of snow falling if the conditions are right. It's the prettiest the city ever gets, probably because it's in disguise under its white blanket. And there we are, all snug as bugs underneath it – water seeping into Ugg boots and can't find a taxi for anything less than the price of your liver, but all's pretty.
Even better is the prospect of not venturing out at all and ordering McDonald's. Oh, I can feel those beady eyes of judgement burning a hole in my head right now. Stop your judgementalising people and give unappetising poison that can't even be diguised as food a chance. Besides, post 10.30 pm dinner at the office there's not much of a choice. Starvation is a viable alternative and most definitely the healthier option but there's just something it can't deliver.
You see, after placing your Mc Order the Mc Employee rounds out the conversation with this bit of Mc Magic: "Okay have good time bye.
That looming all nighter doesn't seem so bad when the Mc D's delivery person tells me to have good time. It reminds me of what's really important in this big blue world of ours. Cold outside? Forgetaboutit. Have good time bye. All work and no play getting you down? Whatever. Tell them all to have good time bye.
So there you go, winter's not so bad where at the end of a call you can feel a connection, a real connection that goes beyond pretend food and becomes all warm and gushy. So to all, wherever you may be, I wish you to have good time bye.
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