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.
Showing posts with label shanghai. Show all posts
Showing posts with label shanghai. Show all posts
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.
22 November 2010
Good night pyjamas, good morning civilisation
In any rush to modernisation there are always the ones who don't quite make it; the ones who get left behind. This is their story. Cue music… I don't know, something pathetic…
Just as Beijing men were discouraged from going shirtless during the Olympics (apparently it was okay for women) proper attire had been mandated over the Expo period. So that meant the Shanghainese custom of wearing pyjamas in public is under threat.
Volunteer pj police patrolled neighbourhoods telling everybody sporting jim-jams to go home, while messages declared that civilised people don't wear them outdoors. Apparently even celebrities appeared on TV to also add their weight to the issue that's threatening to tear this society apart.
Admittedly this custom had been in decline with sightings decreasing annually but it's always been a staple of the Shanghai scene – you know, see the Pearl Tower and check out a couple of funny jammy wearing peeps while you're at it. Maybe even at the same time if you're really lucky. It's just one of those things that's provided this place with a little charm and character. However these qualities are not needed in a big, serious, modern megalopolis.
There's not a lot of looking back over here and why should they I suppose when for the last 150 years or so there isn't a lot to look back to. People lived on top of one another and shared toilets and kitchens with their neighbours, so stepping outside in your pyjamas was no big deal. After all, it was practical.
But it's not really about the pyjamas; it never is, is it.
Shanghai's surely but slowly losing its innocence. I'm not talking about whore of the orient 2.0 kind of innocence but rather more the baby's growing up kind. Things are changing whether anyone is ready or not and as a result, infrastructure just becomes a facade without the interior growing organically with it.
Post Olympics and with the preening and systematic wiping out of the old hutong communities Beijing is now a shiny modern metropolis. One losing its soul but modern nonetheless.
Essentially China's just not that interesting as a bunch of faceless cities but that's the way it seems to be heading. Convenient yes, but no longer as charming. Outdoor markets have gone indoors and food streets that have evolved over decades and look every bit like they've kept a toe-hold in each of those years like a patchwork quilt made of shopfronts.
Yes, we can't stop progress but all in good time. It looks like the baby has grown up alright but is now a bit of a dickhead teenager.
So where does that leave the pyjama people? I hear you ask.
Well, in this world where the only communal area is the lobby of the thirty floor apartment block, it appears some people have decided that by only wearing pyjama pants constitutes as being only half heathen.
See? Not ready to grow up.
And by the way, I'm not really sure as to what age outdoor pj wearing labels you a barbarian – maybe anything above two. The way I see it is that if you can stand, you're liable. So hopefully those pyjama cops come down hard on those thieving toddlers and their unsophisticated, non-Expo approved outfits. That'll teach them for messing with the system.
So now that pyjama wearing has been put on notice I suppose they may move on to public spitting and queue jumping. Oh, surely not.
Just as Beijing men were discouraged from going shirtless during the Olympics (apparently it was okay for women) proper attire had been mandated over the Expo period. So that meant the Shanghainese custom of wearing pyjamas in public is under threat.
Volunteer pj police patrolled neighbourhoods telling everybody sporting jim-jams to go home, while messages declared that civilised people don't wear them outdoors. Apparently even celebrities appeared on TV to also add their weight to the issue that's threatening to tear this society apart.
Admittedly this custom had been in decline with sightings decreasing annually but it's always been a staple of the Shanghai scene – you know, see the Pearl Tower and check out a couple of funny jammy wearing peeps while you're at it. Maybe even at the same time if you're really lucky. It's just one of those things that's provided this place with a little charm and character. However these qualities are not needed in a big, serious, modern megalopolis.
There's not a lot of looking back over here and why should they I suppose when for the last 150 years or so there isn't a lot to look back to. People lived on top of one another and shared toilets and kitchens with their neighbours, so stepping outside in your pyjamas was no big deal. After all, it was practical.
But it's not really about the pyjamas; it never is, is it.
Shanghai's surely but slowly losing its innocence. I'm not talking about whore of the orient 2.0 kind of innocence but rather more the baby's growing up kind. Things are changing whether anyone is ready or not and as a result, infrastructure just becomes a facade without the interior growing organically with it.
Post Olympics and with the preening and systematic wiping out of the old hutong communities Beijing is now a shiny modern metropolis. One losing its soul but modern nonetheless.
Essentially China's just not that interesting as a bunch of faceless cities but that's the way it seems to be heading. Convenient yes, but no longer as charming. Outdoor markets have gone indoors and food streets that have evolved over decades and look every bit like they've kept a toe-hold in each of those years like a patchwork quilt made of shopfronts.
Yes, we can't stop progress but all in good time. It looks like the baby has grown up alright but is now a bit of a dickhead teenager.
So where does that leave the pyjama people? I hear you ask.
Well, in this world where the only communal area is the lobby of the thirty floor apartment block, it appears some people have decided that by only wearing pyjama pants constitutes as being only half heathen.
See? Not ready to grow up.
And by the way, I'm not really sure as to what age outdoor pj wearing labels you a barbarian – maybe anything above two. The way I see it is that if you can stand, you're liable. So hopefully those pyjama cops come down hard on those thieving toddlers and their unsophisticated, non-Expo approved outfits. That'll teach them for messing with the system.
So now that pyjama wearing has been put on notice I suppose they may move on to public spitting and queue jumping. Oh, surely not.
10 December 2009
Clothes maketh the mutt
Not so long ago I thought I had seen Yao Ming. Okay, perhaps it wasn't him as he was only half the size – you know, 6' 8" or something. And as I laid eyes on him I remembered the conspiracy theory concerning the government dropping the one child ban for his parents so they can create multiple Yao Mings.
The plan was to have an entire team out there, populating basketball courts around the world and beating all comers for the glory of the motherland. But it wasn't to be.
Of course, this guy could have been a failed early attempt before they shut the entire program down and moved on to the Jet Li kung fu army program instead. But it soon didn't concern me as my attention quickly wondered from the Yao Ming mini-me failed experiment dude to his dog – and that's where my attention stayed. You see, it was fully clothed.
As you no doubt already know I'm no heathen, so of course I have seen dogs clothed before. A duffle coat here, a cape there but no, this was something special. This was a dog wearing pants... oh, and shoes. Shoes people, shoes. Actually, they looked like trainers as what else would Yao Ming's half developed clone brother have on his dog's feet?
As you are no doubt wandering, the pants were only half pants with strategic spaces cut out where they should be when nature calls. I'd imagine they'd be rather drafty but that could be just me. It looked like a jumpsuit of some variety but I couldn't be sure as I really couldn't take my eyes off those trainers.
This appears to be the latest fad in the Paris of the east. Since my first encounter I've spied a number of these little getups and always with the same result of bemusement on my face. Of course, as my acting skills are a little sub-par I'm sure the look would have verged more on the horrified as I eyeball these little freaks of nature. I'm yet to see uniforms or dog cosplay but it's really only a matter of time before there are little dog butterflies, nurses or warriors roaming the streets.
The closest I have come to that is a farmer dog, although being a small, fluffy white creature I suspected this wasn't a natural look. I might have bought a farmer border collie – perhaps if I was drunk enough – but this looked like a city slicker going country and western.
Either way, a mandatory for the truly serous is the addition of shoes. A good idea given the types of little surprises your feet are likely to encounter on the streets of Shanghai. Although that said, in an effort to rapidly advance into a sophisticated society, public displays of spitting are down – although thankfully not public displays of pouting by Shanghainese girls.
Regardless, there's still a layer of grime that descends from construction craters and mixed with the odd bit of food, drink and I don't know waste, makes for a delicious cocktail you really wouldn't want on your bare feet. Not to say it's in actual fact a cesspool of disgust, it's just a scenario a germaphobe such as myself shouldn't ponder for too long.
So in an effort to prevent their fuzzy child (as let's face it, this is really just the logical evolution of the one-child policy) from bringing in who-knows-what, or subjecting them to a humiliating wipe of the feet when they return home, the potentially more humiliating dog shoes it is. Or perhaps at home they slip into something more comfy such as a pair of tiny slippers.
So what type of dog would allow such a thing to compromise its dignity I hear you ask? It's always the small ones, the ones who don't possess a great deal of dignity in the first place. Basically, something white and fluffy usually does the trick. And without fail, the little critters always cast a look my way and you know, pomeranian or not, there's embarrassment in their eyes. They know they're looking stupid and if they had larger fangs the person responsible was going to pay.
The incidences of these run-ins have increased as we creep closer to Shanghai's answer to Beijing Olympics, the 2010 World Expo – so of course I'm starting to smell a cover up.
You see, this entire dog in jump-suit deal is merely intended to keep eyes off the real menace: the traffic clogging the roads. And clogged roads are not good when you are wanting to play host to a World Expo – it's the world after all. So in its wisdom the government has sent out their little army of costumed mutts to bedazzle and confuse.
And in order to maintain that interest they like to mix things up a little. The latest look for the summer months was the appearance of shaved dogs. Basically, it means that these little creatures have gone from absolute nakedness to outfits in the matter of months. Interestingly they seem more embarrassed by the latter option.
I suppose the only thing left is to spray Expo logos on their naked bellies (much like I saw some patriotic Beijingers get up to in the lead up to the Olympics) then I'll be happy. But I'll only really be impressed if they make sure their dogs are still wearing shoes, as you just can't get better than the naked with shoes combo.
The plan was to have an entire team out there, populating basketball courts around the world and beating all comers for the glory of the motherland. But it wasn't to be.
Of course, this guy could have been a failed early attempt before they shut the entire program down and moved on to the Jet Li kung fu army program instead. But it soon didn't concern me as my attention quickly wondered from the Yao Ming mini-me failed experiment dude to his dog – and that's where my attention stayed. You see, it was fully clothed.
As you no doubt already know I'm no heathen, so of course I have seen dogs clothed before. A duffle coat here, a cape there but no, this was something special. This was a dog wearing pants... oh, and shoes. Shoes people, shoes. Actually, they looked like trainers as what else would Yao Ming's half developed clone brother have on his dog's feet?
As you are no doubt wandering, the pants were only half pants with strategic spaces cut out where they should be when nature calls. I'd imagine they'd be rather drafty but that could be just me. It looked like a jumpsuit of some variety but I couldn't be sure as I really couldn't take my eyes off those trainers.
This appears to be the latest fad in the Paris of the east. Since my first encounter I've spied a number of these little getups and always with the same result of bemusement on my face. Of course, as my acting skills are a little sub-par I'm sure the look would have verged more on the horrified as I eyeball these little freaks of nature. I'm yet to see uniforms or dog cosplay but it's really only a matter of time before there are little dog butterflies, nurses or warriors roaming the streets.
The closest I have come to that is a farmer dog, although being a small, fluffy white creature I suspected this wasn't a natural look. I might have bought a farmer border collie – perhaps if I was drunk enough – but this looked like a city slicker going country and western.
Either way, a mandatory for the truly serous is the addition of shoes. A good idea given the types of little surprises your feet are likely to encounter on the streets of Shanghai. Although that said, in an effort to rapidly advance into a sophisticated society, public displays of spitting are down – although thankfully not public displays of pouting by Shanghainese girls.
Regardless, there's still a layer of grime that descends from construction craters and mixed with the odd bit of food, drink and I don't know waste, makes for a delicious cocktail you really wouldn't want on your bare feet. Not to say it's in actual fact a cesspool of disgust, it's just a scenario a germaphobe such as myself shouldn't ponder for too long.
So in an effort to prevent their fuzzy child (as let's face it, this is really just the logical evolution of the one-child policy) from bringing in who-knows-what, or subjecting them to a humiliating wipe of the feet when they return home, the potentially more humiliating dog shoes it is. Or perhaps at home they slip into something more comfy such as a pair of tiny slippers.
So what type of dog would allow such a thing to compromise its dignity I hear you ask? It's always the small ones, the ones who don't possess a great deal of dignity in the first place. Basically, something white and fluffy usually does the trick. And without fail, the little critters always cast a look my way and you know, pomeranian or not, there's embarrassment in their eyes. They know they're looking stupid and if they had larger fangs the person responsible was going to pay.
The incidences of these run-ins have increased as we creep closer to Shanghai's answer to Beijing Olympics, the 2010 World Expo – so of course I'm starting to smell a cover up.
You see, this entire dog in jump-suit deal is merely intended to keep eyes off the real menace: the traffic clogging the roads. And clogged roads are not good when you are wanting to play host to a World Expo – it's the world after all. So in its wisdom the government has sent out their little army of costumed mutts to bedazzle and confuse.
And in order to maintain that interest they like to mix things up a little. The latest look for the summer months was the appearance of shaved dogs. Basically, it means that these little creatures have gone from absolute nakedness to outfits in the matter of months. Interestingly they seem more embarrassed by the latter option.
I suppose the only thing left is to spray Expo logos on their naked bellies (much like I saw some patriotic Beijingers get up to in the lead up to the Olympics) then I'll be happy. But I'll only really be impressed if they make sure their dogs are still wearing shoes, as you just can't get better than the naked with shoes combo.
Swine on a plane
I suspected I was in a spot of bother just before the plane began its descent into Shanghai. The amount of bother is always relative to the size of the spot and I knew my spot was growing. You see, I had the good fortune of having a fever on a plane, which would not have been an issue a year ago and a huge one four months back. Now it hovers, paranoid, somewhere in between.
So as I tried not to let my teeth chatter I thought I should come clean on my medical form all arrivals had to fill out. I had originally left it blank hoping the bit of warmth radiating from my forehead might escape detection but the oven that replaced it probably wasn't.
I had it planned; I wasn't going to charge off and race my fellow passengers to Immigration. First of all, it's difficult to race Chinese travelers in the best of health and second, if they were going to bag and tag me I'd rather do that in private. No need to panic everyone else I thought.
I did my best to take my time without looking like I was taking my time. You know, for surveillance purposes, as the last thing I really wanted to be stopped for was being swine flu ridden terrorist. But I couldn't put off my march towards the sensors and as soon as that camera caught site of me alarms sounded. Yeah, real alarms, not like a beep of an alarm clock politely reminding you to get up, this was the sound burglars would hear as they realise the job was botched and they had to make a run for it. Obviously I was familiar with this given my vast robbery experience.
If the alarm wasn't enough to startle you into place, the two guys behind the desk leaping up and motioning you towards them might have been. They wanted to see the medical card that I would have filled in honestly, so that's what I gave them.
That was the beginning of a whole lot of “Follow me sir” as I journeyed from one area to the other, carefully guided by the Chinese Immigration Department. The gent who initially spoke to me might have been a doctor as he looked doctorish but he really just could have been a cop, or some dude who they bring out to grunt and furrow his eyebrows. I think 'furrow eyebrow guy' was what it said under his name but I could have been mistaken.
Then I was told to wait, so being a good potential swine flu carrier with both real and electronic eyes trained on me I complied. Besides, they had my passport. I was informed that I was to go to a nearby hospital to be checked for H1N1.
I was given a mask in order to make me as conspicuous as possible so the Air India crew could give me those sorts of looks. It seemed like a dare to me, an encouragement to run over and share the swiney love. But thinking running might be frowned on in the airport I resisted the urge.
From my vantage point just outside the Customs Office I could see into a room full of screens displaying all sorts of people arriving into Shanghai. They were being watched at every vantage point as their temperatures were being monitored. The alarm went off again, a child and his mother, and that got me wondering whether we were all going to be herded together for a hospital trek. I didn't relish that thought, as I had no wish to hang with swine flu infested people.
Because I believed I didn't have it.
The spot of bother didn't quite originate on the plane. I actually suspected there might be trouble the day before in Hong Kong when a fever formed over the course of the day. As not really knowing the symptoms, I was a little more paranoid then. Yes, more so. I didn't want to infect anyone, while painfully aware of the amazingly high density of that city's population.
As I only found myself getting worse, by that evening I thought a hospital visit was in order. It was a typically Hong Kong ordered procession of enter, sanitise hands and put on a mask. The doctor merely confirmed what I suspected – something throat related and not even a hoof in site. Basically, I was there for the meds and so appropriately armed, was out of there quick smart.
And there I thought that was that, with whatever I had beaten into submission via the wonders of modern medicine. Unfortunately, as I sat waiting at the whim of the Chinese Immigration Department I suspected whatever it was I had had a few more rounds to go before we were through with one another.
I was escorted out of the airport through the back. Past the staff only doors, cigarette butt infested corridor and down the elevator to the waiting ambulance. It appeared my chariot was waiting. I piled in and off we went to the hospital, blue lights flashing and all.
The hospital seemed to be the most isolated place you could imagine. Well, I suppose you would want to keep your infected as far away as possible. It didn't help that it looked deserted and on the approach of the ambulance large metal gates had to be opened. Nor did it help that a nurse had to unlock an over-sized bike chain draped around another gate. I supposed it was going to be difficult for me to make a run for it. Obviously the first thing that came out of my mouth was, "How long am I going to be here?"
There was a muffled response of where I was living and the word “tomorrow”.
So there I was in a stark white hospital room with a nurse that looked more like she was ready for radioactive fallout, covered head to toe. The only revealing sign of her humanity were her eyes. It would appear we weren't the only ones there in the vast haunted hospital you could shoot a Japanese horror film in, as there was a voice heard through the intercom on the wall.
So more testing, this time blood – three vials worth – and a couple of DNA swabs. That appeared to be it for haunted bio chemical ready nurse girl and as I was living in Shanghai I discovered was allowed to go home. The bit about “tomorrow” I had heard earlier was that that's when they would contact me if I had contracted H1N1. But if I did have it wouldn't that mean they would have to trace back every person I had contact with? Would they have to quarantine my apartment block? I wasn't entirely sure this was a plan they had thought completely through. Whatever. I had my opportunity to escape the lonely, scary hospital and I was going to take it.
I almost leapt into the waiting taxi and almost didn't care the driver didn't know where I lived and insisted on taking the long way there. Sure it took a good four hours to get home but I don't think I could remember the last time I was so happy to be in a place where I could be sick without triggering alarms.
And to this day, they still haven’t called.
Sounds kind of like my dating life.
So as I tried not to let my teeth chatter I thought I should come clean on my medical form all arrivals had to fill out. I had originally left it blank hoping the bit of warmth radiating from my forehead might escape detection but the oven that replaced it probably wasn't.
I had it planned; I wasn't going to charge off and race my fellow passengers to Immigration. First of all, it's difficult to race Chinese travelers in the best of health and second, if they were going to bag and tag me I'd rather do that in private. No need to panic everyone else I thought.
I did my best to take my time without looking like I was taking my time. You know, for surveillance purposes, as the last thing I really wanted to be stopped for was being swine flu ridden terrorist. But I couldn't put off my march towards the sensors and as soon as that camera caught site of me alarms sounded. Yeah, real alarms, not like a beep of an alarm clock politely reminding you to get up, this was the sound burglars would hear as they realise the job was botched and they had to make a run for it. Obviously I was familiar with this given my vast robbery experience.
If the alarm wasn't enough to startle you into place, the two guys behind the desk leaping up and motioning you towards them might have been. They wanted to see the medical card that I would have filled in honestly, so that's what I gave them.
That was the beginning of a whole lot of “Follow me sir” as I journeyed from one area to the other, carefully guided by the Chinese Immigration Department. The gent who initially spoke to me might have been a doctor as he looked doctorish but he really just could have been a cop, or some dude who they bring out to grunt and furrow his eyebrows. I think 'furrow eyebrow guy' was what it said under his name but I could have been mistaken.
Then I was told to wait, so being a good potential swine flu carrier with both real and electronic eyes trained on me I complied. Besides, they had my passport. I was informed that I was to go to a nearby hospital to be checked for H1N1.
I was given a mask in order to make me as conspicuous as possible so the Air India crew could give me those sorts of looks. It seemed like a dare to me, an encouragement to run over and share the swiney love. But thinking running might be frowned on in the airport I resisted the urge.
From my vantage point just outside the Customs Office I could see into a room full of screens displaying all sorts of people arriving into Shanghai. They were being watched at every vantage point as their temperatures were being monitored. The alarm went off again, a child and his mother, and that got me wondering whether we were all going to be herded together for a hospital trek. I didn't relish that thought, as I had no wish to hang with swine flu infested people.
Because I believed I didn't have it.
The spot of bother didn't quite originate on the plane. I actually suspected there might be trouble the day before in Hong Kong when a fever formed over the course of the day. As not really knowing the symptoms, I was a little more paranoid then. Yes, more so. I didn't want to infect anyone, while painfully aware of the amazingly high density of that city's population.
As I only found myself getting worse, by that evening I thought a hospital visit was in order. It was a typically Hong Kong ordered procession of enter, sanitise hands and put on a mask. The doctor merely confirmed what I suspected – something throat related and not even a hoof in site. Basically, I was there for the meds and so appropriately armed, was out of there quick smart.
And there I thought that was that, with whatever I had beaten into submission via the wonders of modern medicine. Unfortunately, as I sat waiting at the whim of the Chinese Immigration Department I suspected whatever it was I had had a few more rounds to go before we were through with one another.
I was escorted out of the airport through the back. Past the staff only doors, cigarette butt infested corridor and down the elevator to the waiting ambulance. It appeared my chariot was waiting. I piled in and off we went to the hospital, blue lights flashing and all.
The hospital seemed to be the most isolated place you could imagine. Well, I suppose you would want to keep your infected as far away as possible. It didn't help that it looked deserted and on the approach of the ambulance large metal gates had to be opened. Nor did it help that a nurse had to unlock an over-sized bike chain draped around another gate. I supposed it was going to be difficult for me to make a run for it. Obviously the first thing that came out of my mouth was, "How long am I going to be here?"
There was a muffled response of where I was living and the word “tomorrow”.
So there I was in a stark white hospital room with a nurse that looked more like she was ready for radioactive fallout, covered head to toe. The only revealing sign of her humanity were her eyes. It would appear we weren't the only ones there in the vast haunted hospital you could shoot a Japanese horror film in, as there was a voice heard through the intercom on the wall.
So more testing, this time blood – three vials worth – and a couple of DNA swabs. That appeared to be it for haunted bio chemical ready nurse girl and as I was living in Shanghai I discovered was allowed to go home. The bit about “tomorrow” I had heard earlier was that that's when they would contact me if I had contracted H1N1. But if I did have it wouldn't that mean they would have to trace back every person I had contact with? Would they have to quarantine my apartment block? I wasn't entirely sure this was a plan they had thought completely through. Whatever. I had my opportunity to escape the lonely, scary hospital and I was going to take it.
I almost leapt into the waiting taxi and almost didn't care the driver didn't know where I lived and insisted on taking the long way there. Sure it took a good four hours to get home but I don't think I could remember the last time I was so happy to be in a place where I could be sick without triggering alarms.
And to this day, they still haven’t called.
Sounds kind of like my dating life.
Bubble world
I've always harbored the feeling that life here is akin to living in a bubble but it's never been more evident than now. Hermetically sealed from all the global goings on that would have me thinking the sky is falling. But even our little oasis of gaudy neons and fake Louis Vuitton lugging population is not immune to a little downturn. Well after all, if everyone else is doing it, Shanghai will want to get in on it too.
On the shopping strips the turnover of new business isn't as immediate as it once was. Obviously meaning it won't be converted into something completely different in two hours – it's now more like five. Also, 'For Lease' signs are a novel addition to the retail landscape while it's the first time in almost five years I have seen vacant stores.
A number of clubs, bars and restaurants have closed but as this was something that was going on with enough regularity it can hardly be attributed to the tightening of the economy. What's more to blame is an over-catering to a singular group of consumers – technically known to marketers as rich peeps.
Sure, rich peeps possess a lot more money to splash around than your average Mr. and Ms. Wang but not at the same kind of place offering the same over-priced foie gras. Of course, I'm as much of a fan of over-stuffed goose liver as the next guy but even I can tell you it's not a sustainable plan.
I have no doubt that there have been a number of foreign victims of the politely named 'downturn' that gave way to a much more accurate recession. Every business in the export or financial industries have been hit and obviously that's where a lot of the concern, and expulsion, is centered.
This is also more the case of the huge manufacturing and export cities down south with mass migration of its workforce back to their hometowns. There they will await their uncertain future the best way they can and hopefully not consider descent – as the government is fearful idle workers get up to. Well, I know that's what I like to do if I don't have a TV script to work on, so it's fair to think it would be the same for them.
Usually advertising goes the same way and with the larger traditional ones, they are. Many suffer, with their clients shrinking budgets or even deserting, like rats would a sinking ship. Not that I would ever liken clients to rodents but sometimes they smell a loser and don't want to be associated with one when the time comes to re-assess their relationships. They have to jump ship to somewhere and apparently that somewhere at the moment is the company I'm working.
Thankfully the company has become a client magnet with many joining last year but unfortunately the type of client we have attracted has been the ugly type. Perhaps like attracts like or was that opposites attract?
Normally when I complete my weekly timesheets and press 'submit' things generally go according to pre-programmed plan and all is good with the world. However, lately I'm greeted with a message informing me that I have exceeded 60 hours and need to verify that I'm not really just having a laugh at the company's expense.
I'm not talking about submitting totals that are just scraping over the limit mind you, I'm doing my best to double them; so I verify and suspect I'm working a little more than usual. I suppose you know you're in trouble when you find yourself turning off the lights in the office and then turning them on again the next morning.
You tend to believe you might be in deeper trouble when you realise that the clients you are doing this for are quite possibly one of the most mentally challenged group of idiots you have ever had the pleasure of working with.
Surprisingly it was all still navigable, as with experience we creative ad folk obtain arcane advertising skills to overcome some of these obstacles. It's got something to do with conjuring up dead ad guys but I'm not allowed to divulge any more then that. However, what threw me over the edge was that the client would communicate to us in the gibberish language of marketing speak.
Just like French is the language of love this is the dialect of fools, where stupid people can say something and give the appearance of being clever. I don't know if they have actually conducted any tests on this but I believe if a normal person is subjected to this language over the course of months they become violent. That would explain the voices in my head.
One particularly quintessential Chinese advertising experience is working with a celebrity. You name the product and there's usually a famous face telling you how good it is. We had one: thankfully, an established star and not someone who had recently made good and was still dealing with new celebrity. This added another layer of approvals to the process as his people needed to be constantly assured we were treating his image correctly.
Celebrities are ubiquitous in the ad scene, as for many marketers it's a short-hand to create some sort of trust and familiarity by proxy. Sure, that happens everywhere but in a culture that has been drastically interrupted and then forced to catch up with the outside world that need to relate is multiplied. Nobody knows who to turn to in order to lead the way, so that's where the seemingly endless stream of Hong Kong and Taiwan pop idols come in.
Well, at least we used our celebrity with his knowledge, which is not necessarily the case here. So along with piracy of music and movies, there are also no qualms in knocking-off a person's image.
There have been cases in the past where Hollywood stars have been flogging products on television without their knowledge. Bad enough at the best of times, even worse if you have been chosen as the face for erectile dysfunction medication. I suppose if it works for sports stars (and as a bonus it apparently also helps them on the football field) it will work for me. So tune in next month and I'll let you know how well my erectile football goes.
I've also wandered what Angelina Jolie would have made of her face endorsing a local clothing store. Not a brand, just a shop. But she has a way to go until she matches the heights of Liv Tyler, going one better and having a chain of shoe stores named after her.
Fortunately for our star we opted not to take an old publicity shot of him, place it on the body of a monkey and pass it off as a the result of a wonder drink. Actually, that may have looked better than the end result. Oh well, next time.
And so, this is where I find myself, trapped in a bubble of lunacy within the bigger 'we're not in a recession so pass the Moet' bubble of Shanghai. In time both will burst and I can go back to working my 59.5 hours and the timesheet reminder doesn't give me a hard time anymore.
On the shopping strips the turnover of new business isn't as immediate as it once was. Obviously meaning it won't be converted into something completely different in two hours – it's now more like five. Also, 'For Lease' signs are a novel addition to the retail landscape while it's the first time in almost five years I have seen vacant stores.
A number of clubs, bars and restaurants have closed but as this was something that was going on with enough regularity it can hardly be attributed to the tightening of the economy. What's more to blame is an over-catering to a singular group of consumers – technically known to marketers as rich peeps.
Sure, rich peeps possess a lot more money to splash around than your average Mr. and Ms. Wang but not at the same kind of place offering the same over-priced foie gras. Of course, I'm as much of a fan of over-stuffed goose liver as the next guy but even I can tell you it's not a sustainable plan.
I have no doubt that there have been a number of foreign victims of the politely named 'downturn' that gave way to a much more accurate recession. Every business in the export or financial industries have been hit and obviously that's where a lot of the concern, and expulsion, is centered.
This is also more the case of the huge manufacturing and export cities down south with mass migration of its workforce back to their hometowns. There they will await their uncertain future the best way they can and hopefully not consider descent – as the government is fearful idle workers get up to. Well, I know that's what I like to do if I don't have a TV script to work on, so it's fair to think it would be the same for them.
Usually advertising goes the same way and with the larger traditional ones, they are. Many suffer, with their clients shrinking budgets or even deserting, like rats would a sinking ship. Not that I would ever liken clients to rodents but sometimes they smell a loser and don't want to be associated with one when the time comes to re-assess their relationships. They have to jump ship to somewhere and apparently that somewhere at the moment is the company I'm working.
Thankfully the company has become a client magnet with many joining last year but unfortunately the type of client we have attracted has been the ugly type. Perhaps like attracts like or was that opposites attract?
Normally when I complete my weekly timesheets and press 'submit' things generally go according to pre-programmed plan and all is good with the world. However, lately I'm greeted with a message informing me that I have exceeded 60 hours and need to verify that I'm not really just having a laugh at the company's expense.
I'm not talking about submitting totals that are just scraping over the limit mind you, I'm doing my best to double them; so I verify and suspect I'm working a little more than usual. I suppose you know you're in trouble when you find yourself turning off the lights in the office and then turning them on again the next morning.
You tend to believe you might be in deeper trouble when you realise that the clients you are doing this for are quite possibly one of the most mentally challenged group of idiots you have ever had the pleasure of working with.
Surprisingly it was all still navigable, as with experience we creative ad folk obtain arcane advertising skills to overcome some of these obstacles. It's got something to do with conjuring up dead ad guys but I'm not allowed to divulge any more then that. However, what threw me over the edge was that the client would communicate to us in the gibberish language of marketing speak.
Just like French is the language of love this is the dialect of fools, where stupid people can say something and give the appearance of being clever. I don't know if they have actually conducted any tests on this but I believe if a normal person is subjected to this language over the course of months they become violent. That would explain the voices in my head.
One particularly quintessential Chinese advertising experience is working with a celebrity. You name the product and there's usually a famous face telling you how good it is. We had one: thankfully, an established star and not someone who had recently made good and was still dealing with new celebrity. This added another layer of approvals to the process as his people needed to be constantly assured we were treating his image correctly.
Celebrities are ubiquitous in the ad scene, as for many marketers it's a short-hand to create some sort of trust and familiarity by proxy. Sure, that happens everywhere but in a culture that has been drastically interrupted and then forced to catch up with the outside world that need to relate is multiplied. Nobody knows who to turn to in order to lead the way, so that's where the seemingly endless stream of Hong Kong and Taiwan pop idols come in.
Well, at least we used our celebrity with his knowledge, which is not necessarily the case here. So along with piracy of music and movies, there are also no qualms in knocking-off a person's image.
There have been cases in the past where Hollywood stars have been flogging products on television without their knowledge. Bad enough at the best of times, even worse if you have been chosen as the face for erectile dysfunction medication. I suppose if it works for sports stars (and as a bonus it apparently also helps them on the football field) it will work for me. So tune in next month and I'll let you know how well my erectile football goes.
I've also wandered what Angelina Jolie would have made of her face endorsing a local clothing store. Not a brand, just a shop. But she has a way to go until she matches the heights of Liv Tyler, going one better and having a chain of shoe stores named after her.
Fortunately for our star we opted not to take an old publicity shot of him, place it on the body of a monkey and pass it off as a the result of a wonder drink. Actually, that may have looked better than the end result. Oh well, next time.
And so, this is where I find myself, trapped in a bubble of lunacy within the bigger 'we're not in a recession so pass the Moet' bubble of Shanghai. In time both will burst and I can go back to working my 59.5 hours and the timesheet reminder doesn't give me a hard time anymore.
My kingdom for a taxi
As soon as they parked themselves further down the road I knew what they were up to. They were a family of three, they were French and they were going to steal my taxi. I was there earlier and they knew that but they were positioned up-street and just like being up-stream they were going to get first go at whatever was going to flow our way.
Of course there was a chance they were going to be descent and allow me my ride but the fact they weren't making eye contact told me that might be as likely as them handing me a suitcase of cash with a, "Go buy yourself something nice," for good measure. That was pre-guilt guilt if ever I saw it.
Sure, there was a chance, albeit small, that I was wrong and to wag my finger accusingly before any actual wrongdoing would simply make me look as undignified as I really was. Let them find out on the second meeting I always say; the first meeting is only for them to assume it.
There is a certain taxi etiquette in this fair city that sooner rather than later we all learn. The first rule is that it's every man, woman, child and geriatric for themselves. There are of course exceptions, where considerate people will allow others to go first but as I have already met all seven of them everyone else is out to get my ride.
The trick to not letting this unfortunate situation arise is to position yourself higher up the road than your competitors (oh yes, as that's what they are) in order to have first pick. However, one must perform this act as nonchalantly as possible as desperation is simply uncouth.
Those unfortunate others lining the curb, waiting for your taxi just don't exist so if in the unlikely event of any sort of challenge it should come as a complete surprise. And obviously overacting that surprise is par for the course.
When a taxi is in sight you must release your 'wrists of fury', flapping your hand in the most limp-wristed, campest manner possible. This implies that your need for a ride is far more urgent than anyone else's, or that you're ready to fly. Unfortunately when everyone else employs this method this becomes rather a moot point but when in Rome, uh, slip on a toga.
Eventually a taxi does stop and when it does that whole unhurried hurrying to the car door takes place, as while flagging it is one thing, securing it is another. The same goes with charging towards a car disembarking passengers nearby. That usually requires a brisk walk towards the target rather than an all-out bolt.
As soon as the unfortunate taxi comes to s standstill you must hover just outside the door like a crazed axe murderer ready to pounce on a group of scantily dressed sorority chicks. All the better if you do carry an axe as that should hurry the transaction going on inside the car. Obviously, as Murphy's Law would dictate the more urgently you need the taxi or torrential the environment, the slower the passenger will settle their account.
Hopefully you should understand by now that one should never let a little thing like that get in the way of scoring a ride. While the current passenger digs into their seemingly endless wallet in order to locate change, slide into the vacant seat: front if they're in the back or consequently, the back seat if the front is occupied. Besides, if you don't do it there's still a chance someone else might.
Yes, even with you hovering by the door, breathing heavily, someone may slide into a vacant seat pretending not to notice you.
At that point it would be considered impolite to remove them from the vehicle as somehow it was not considered as impolite to steal it in the first place. Given that outcome you would be considered the loser in that encounter and would have to try your luck elsewhere. And that just happened to be my fate as the French family piled into the taxi that should have been mine.
They would have been residents here long enough to know the rules and the behaviour of the victorious as they looked everywhere else but in my direction. I did all I could: stared at their passing taxi as I silently cursed them and the next 30 generations of their offspring, before returning to my limp-wristed taxi waving.
Of course there was a chance they were going to be descent and allow me my ride but the fact they weren't making eye contact told me that might be as likely as them handing me a suitcase of cash with a, "Go buy yourself something nice," for good measure. That was pre-guilt guilt if ever I saw it.
Sure, there was a chance, albeit small, that I was wrong and to wag my finger accusingly before any actual wrongdoing would simply make me look as undignified as I really was. Let them find out on the second meeting I always say; the first meeting is only for them to assume it.
There is a certain taxi etiquette in this fair city that sooner rather than later we all learn. The first rule is that it's every man, woman, child and geriatric for themselves. There are of course exceptions, where considerate people will allow others to go first but as I have already met all seven of them everyone else is out to get my ride.
The trick to not letting this unfortunate situation arise is to position yourself higher up the road than your competitors (oh yes, as that's what they are) in order to have first pick. However, one must perform this act as nonchalantly as possible as desperation is simply uncouth.
Those unfortunate others lining the curb, waiting for your taxi just don't exist so if in the unlikely event of any sort of challenge it should come as a complete surprise. And obviously overacting that surprise is par for the course.
When a taxi is in sight you must release your 'wrists of fury', flapping your hand in the most limp-wristed, campest manner possible. This implies that your need for a ride is far more urgent than anyone else's, or that you're ready to fly. Unfortunately when everyone else employs this method this becomes rather a moot point but when in Rome, uh, slip on a toga.
Eventually a taxi does stop and when it does that whole unhurried hurrying to the car door takes place, as while flagging it is one thing, securing it is another. The same goes with charging towards a car disembarking passengers nearby. That usually requires a brisk walk towards the target rather than an all-out bolt.
As soon as the unfortunate taxi comes to s standstill you must hover just outside the door like a crazed axe murderer ready to pounce on a group of scantily dressed sorority chicks. All the better if you do carry an axe as that should hurry the transaction going on inside the car. Obviously, as Murphy's Law would dictate the more urgently you need the taxi or torrential the environment, the slower the passenger will settle their account.
Hopefully you should understand by now that one should never let a little thing like that get in the way of scoring a ride. While the current passenger digs into their seemingly endless wallet in order to locate change, slide into the vacant seat: front if they're in the back or consequently, the back seat if the front is occupied. Besides, if you don't do it there's still a chance someone else might.
Yes, even with you hovering by the door, breathing heavily, someone may slide into a vacant seat pretending not to notice you.
At that point it would be considered impolite to remove them from the vehicle as somehow it was not considered as impolite to steal it in the first place. Given that outcome you would be considered the loser in that encounter and would have to try your luck elsewhere. And that just happened to be my fate as the French family piled into the taxi that should have been mine.
They would have been residents here long enough to know the rules and the behaviour of the victorious as they looked everywhere else but in my direction. I did all I could: stared at their passing taxi as I silently cursed them and the next 30 generations of their offspring, before returning to my limp-wristed taxi waving.
Duking it out
When you first arrive you're pretty much always greeted with a smile by everyone who crosses your path. Except the customs officer but then I think that's a global thing and these people are hand picked for their inability to sympathise with others. Most of the time you are a curiosity; other times a possible source of income. Whatever the motive, the Chinese are friendly people.
But sometimes they're not.
It really doesn't take that long to see an aggressive act. However these acts rarely come to blows, well not when there are Chinese arguing. Rather, it usually ends up being a stand off where both parties scream at one another.
I guess it's just another great example of the all powerful face and once they're committed to a course of action (usually being wronged in these cases) than it's difficult to back down. That's because there's inevitably an audience to the shouting match.
Arms flail about, gesturing to apparently important objects that prove their side of the story. It's a dramatic performance so understandably witnesses move in closer for a ring-side view. Some will give their opinion – in a shouting, face turning red and spittle flying kind of way. And pretty soon you have a gathering that most likely resembles a family reunion of the likes last seen when the Capulets and Monteguets got together for Christmas.
From the few I've witnessed it seems the women tend to get the loudest. This isn't justified at all when I compare it to the Shanghainese women I know but apparently in the greater Chinese world Shanghainese women have a bad reputation. They're supposed to be bossy, greedy women who have beaten their men into submission. And apparently when not beating their men they're out arguing with anyone who crosses their path.
I rarely see the results of these matches as they just take way too long to get anywhere and my attention span is a good 2 to 3 seconds – on better days. They'll argue even if they were in the wrong, even with witnesses and all.
Case in point was when a friend crossed the street. Pretty simple you would think, even though to cross the street she had to make her way across a bike lane. Although she was in the midst of a conversation, she checked to see who was coming, which was easy to do given these lanes were mono directional and clearly marked as so.
Unfortunately she was knocked over by a man travelling in the wrong direction. Thankfully nothing serious happened but he did have the nerve to argue as to why she would cross the lane without checking for bikes travelling against the traffic in the wrong direction. Sometimes, the bigger arguments (whereby with "bigger" I mean where damage to vehicles or people has occurred) can end with the handing over of cash in order to make amends.
That's the way it's done here – where people will wait, usually with a policeman acting as adjudicator, until a sum is agreed on. And just like an primary school when a single member of the class performed a naughty act, nobody was going home until it was settled.
Sometimes cash can be a means of paying a debt and dropping an issue, as was discovered by an American co-worker.
He was riding his push bike to work one brisk spring morning and was brought to a sudden and rather unpleasant stop (if indeed you call somersaulting and crashing on the footpath unpleasant). So in order to get out of the situation with the least amount of hassle, the driver responsible asked him what he thought was a fair price and, once received, paid it.
Of course sometimes the inevitable does happen and words give way to violence. However, from what I have witnessed and heard these have been primarily between Chinese and westerners, where the art of chest puffing and bluff are not so well refined, or even understood by different cultures. By the way, I'm not saying physical fighting doesn't flair up between groups of Chinese but it seems to be kept quiet. You know, don't air our dirty laundry and such.
For all of the ex-pats who call Shanghai home, from time to time we lapse into what we commonly call a "China moment" (or "China day" if it's particularly long). It's basically when the differences of living here become overwhelming, which gives way to feelings of frustration or even unsolicited bursts of anger. Over time you tend to deal with it a little better, even if the city still finds a way to creep under your skin like a bug in a horror film. If Shanghai was a bug it would be a dung beetle, spending way too much time dealing with crap for it's own good, yet still making it work.
So I could sympathise with the western guy who, while on his bike, had a parking truck edge him out to the point where there was nowhere else for him to go but into the railing separating the road and footpath. It was an inconsiderate act, unfortunately just another in a city that has more than its fair share of them. So he banged on the truck and let out a verbal tirade at the driver as he strode toward the cabin, itching for a confrontation. To the driver this was a challenge and he responded in kind.
Shouting soon gave way to shoving and being smaller, the driver ended up being more of a shove-ee as opposed to a shove-er. This was probably the worst thing the cyclist could have done, as in front of a small, yet growing crowd, the truck driver lost face. He stamped off back to the truck's cabin, seemingly defeated. But lose of face being what it was, he soon emerged clutching a metal rod in order to gain the upper hand.
The cyclist, seeing his victory was a little more short lived than he originally hoped, did the smartest thing he could and vacated the scene quick smart.
I also witnessed an incident at a nightclub where a western guy (usually the common denominator in these types of stories) fuelled with enough alcohol to drown his sense of reason insisted on entering when it was clear he was not wanted. Kindly letting him know this were four bouncers. And true to type they were big boys with necks as wide as their heads and all the charm of a cold-blooded reptile.
At first, the westerner was doing a fine impersonation of a sticky piece of chewing gum that was reluctant to be thrown away. He'd be pushed away and he'd return, shoved back only to come again. Due to their frustration, all this gum impersonating achieved was provoke the bodyguards into more and more aggressive tactics. Things flared up to the point that as soon as they were outside, the unwanted guest was thrown down a small flight of steps. What this chap hoped to achieve by coming at the guards again is beyond me but for his effort he was rewarded with bike security chains.
This seemed enough to change his mind as he was chased amongst the queues of taxis on the street. He soon lost them for two very good reasons: 1. by then he most likely felt he was running for his life and 2. he was being pursued by gorillas as wide as they were tall, so they were more likely built for inflicting damage rather than speed.
In any large city these things happen but considering its size Shanghai is rather peaceful. There aren't a lot of cities in the world where you feel safe walking around at 4am. I should know as I've done that enough. I see it as my sworn duty to petrol the streets at odd hours in order to find out what's really going down. Call it my civic duty if you will.
At whatever time there's always someone around and I don't mean in a creepy way either. Actually, out of respect to my adopted city here I try to keep my creepiness down to a minimum. The Chinese aren't big on creepiness by the way and it never gets you a date. No, I take that back as I've seen plenty of creepy guys on dates with local girls.
What I'm trying to say is that accidents, and the arguing, recriminations and bribes that go with it, happen but violence appears to be a little harder to come by. No, I don't like to seek it but I get the feeling it's a little more difficult to find here but then again it always depends on how hard you look. Of course, that's all dependant on your lifestyle (so I suppose if I was a gangster not able to find violence I wouldn't be doing very well) and general disposition.
Obviously violence happens, as remember you can get anything in Shanghai, but not to the degrees it does in many other places. It seems a good old fashioned screaming match will do the trick for the average, angry Shanghainese.
But sometimes they're not.
It really doesn't take that long to see an aggressive act. However these acts rarely come to blows, well not when there are Chinese arguing. Rather, it usually ends up being a stand off where both parties scream at one another.
I guess it's just another great example of the all powerful face and once they're committed to a course of action (usually being wronged in these cases) than it's difficult to back down. That's because there's inevitably an audience to the shouting match.
Arms flail about, gesturing to apparently important objects that prove their side of the story. It's a dramatic performance so understandably witnesses move in closer for a ring-side view. Some will give their opinion – in a shouting, face turning red and spittle flying kind of way. And pretty soon you have a gathering that most likely resembles a family reunion of the likes last seen when the Capulets and Monteguets got together for Christmas.
From the few I've witnessed it seems the women tend to get the loudest. This isn't justified at all when I compare it to the Shanghainese women I know but apparently in the greater Chinese world Shanghainese women have a bad reputation. They're supposed to be bossy, greedy women who have beaten their men into submission. And apparently when not beating their men they're out arguing with anyone who crosses their path.
I rarely see the results of these matches as they just take way too long to get anywhere and my attention span is a good 2 to 3 seconds – on better days. They'll argue even if they were in the wrong, even with witnesses and all.
Case in point was when a friend crossed the street. Pretty simple you would think, even though to cross the street she had to make her way across a bike lane. Although she was in the midst of a conversation, she checked to see who was coming, which was easy to do given these lanes were mono directional and clearly marked as so.
Unfortunately she was knocked over by a man travelling in the wrong direction. Thankfully nothing serious happened but he did have the nerve to argue as to why she would cross the lane without checking for bikes travelling against the traffic in the wrong direction. Sometimes, the bigger arguments (whereby with "bigger" I mean where damage to vehicles or people has occurred) can end with the handing over of cash in order to make amends.
That's the way it's done here – where people will wait, usually with a policeman acting as adjudicator, until a sum is agreed on. And just like an primary school when a single member of the class performed a naughty act, nobody was going home until it was settled.
Sometimes cash can be a means of paying a debt and dropping an issue, as was discovered by an American co-worker.
He was riding his push bike to work one brisk spring morning and was brought to a sudden and rather unpleasant stop (if indeed you call somersaulting and crashing on the footpath unpleasant). So in order to get out of the situation with the least amount of hassle, the driver responsible asked him what he thought was a fair price and, once received, paid it.
Of course sometimes the inevitable does happen and words give way to violence. However, from what I have witnessed and heard these have been primarily between Chinese and westerners, where the art of chest puffing and bluff are not so well refined, or even understood by different cultures. By the way, I'm not saying physical fighting doesn't flair up between groups of Chinese but it seems to be kept quiet. You know, don't air our dirty laundry and such.
For all of the ex-pats who call Shanghai home, from time to time we lapse into what we commonly call a "China moment" (or "China day" if it's particularly long). It's basically when the differences of living here become overwhelming, which gives way to feelings of frustration or even unsolicited bursts of anger. Over time you tend to deal with it a little better, even if the city still finds a way to creep under your skin like a bug in a horror film. If Shanghai was a bug it would be a dung beetle, spending way too much time dealing with crap for it's own good, yet still making it work.
So I could sympathise with the western guy who, while on his bike, had a parking truck edge him out to the point where there was nowhere else for him to go but into the railing separating the road and footpath. It was an inconsiderate act, unfortunately just another in a city that has more than its fair share of them. So he banged on the truck and let out a verbal tirade at the driver as he strode toward the cabin, itching for a confrontation. To the driver this was a challenge and he responded in kind.
Shouting soon gave way to shoving and being smaller, the driver ended up being more of a shove-ee as opposed to a shove-er. This was probably the worst thing the cyclist could have done, as in front of a small, yet growing crowd, the truck driver lost face. He stamped off back to the truck's cabin, seemingly defeated. But lose of face being what it was, he soon emerged clutching a metal rod in order to gain the upper hand.
The cyclist, seeing his victory was a little more short lived than he originally hoped, did the smartest thing he could and vacated the scene quick smart.
I also witnessed an incident at a nightclub where a western guy (usually the common denominator in these types of stories) fuelled with enough alcohol to drown his sense of reason insisted on entering when it was clear he was not wanted. Kindly letting him know this were four bouncers. And true to type they were big boys with necks as wide as their heads and all the charm of a cold-blooded reptile.
At first, the westerner was doing a fine impersonation of a sticky piece of chewing gum that was reluctant to be thrown away. He'd be pushed away and he'd return, shoved back only to come again. Due to their frustration, all this gum impersonating achieved was provoke the bodyguards into more and more aggressive tactics. Things flared up to the point that as soon as they were outside, the unwanted guest was thrown down a small flight of steps. What this chap hoped to achieve by coming at the guards again is beyond me but for his effort he was rewarded with bike security chains.
This seemed enough to change his mind as he was chased amongst the queues of taxis on the street. He soon lost them for two very good reasons: 1. by then he most likely felt he was running for his life and 2. he was being pursued by gorillas as wide as they were tall, so they were more likely built for inflicting damage rather than speed.
In any large city these things happen but considering its size Shanghai is rather peaceful. There aren't a lot of cities in the world where you feel safe walking around at 4am. I should know as I've done that enough. I see it as my sworn duty to petrol the streets at odd hours in order to find out what's really going down. Call it my civic duty if you will.
At whatever time there's always someone around and I don't mean in a creepy way either. Actually, out of respect to my adopted city here I try to keep my creepiness down to a minimum. The Chinese aren't big on creepiness by the way and it never gets you a date. No, I take that back as I've seen plenty of creepy guys on dates with local girls.
What I'm trying to say is that accidents, and the arguing, recriminations and bribes that go with it, happen but violence appears to be a little harder to come by. No, I don't like to seek it but I get the feeling it's a little more difficult to find here but then again it always depends on how hard you look. Of course, that's all dependant on your lifestyle (so I suppose if I was a gangster not able to find violence I wouldn't be doing very well) and general disposition.
Obviously violence happens, as remember you can get anything in Shanghai, but not to the degrees it does in many other places. It seems a good old fashioned screaming match will do the trick for the average, angry Shanghainese.
The curious case of the blind newsagent
He's probably watching me now, those beady little eyes trained on me like heat-seeking missiles. It wasn't always that case, as when I first met him he was was the nearly blind newsagent around the corner from my apartment complex – the one just down from the smelly drain.
Pushing 70 he sat perched on his stool, surrounded by his magazines and newspapers arranged Herbie Hancock keyboard style around the musician. Everything within reach and most likely in the same arrangement since the chairman (version 1.0) was a boy.
Curiously, one of my first thoughts when seeing locals of such seniority is to wonder just how much they have gone through. What they would have seen and experienced, even the amount of things they would and wouldn't want to remember would boggle my relatively sedately experienced mind.
So there he would perch, unaware I'm picturing him doing his Herbie Hancock impersonation 40 years in the past, staring at a printed page an inch from his face. Now there was a man who had over partaken in his wares and caused his eyes to shut down with one too many printed letters.
If only I possessed a vocabulary superior to the intellectually challenged infant's one I have. I imagined he could tell me every news article ever published since they invented the printing press – if not paper itself. Or perhaps he was more of a trash man and the comings and goings of China's Paris Hilton was his subject of choice. Then I would remember the tendencies of the older generation to rabbit on and my tendency to nod, smile and listen; so I thought it best for me that language barrier remained.
This of course is a perfectly reasonable excuse not to learn a language – "Thanks but no thanks, old people will want to speak with me and I don't know how to say no to them."
So instead, he would great me with a, "Hello, have you eaten?" This would usually be proceeded by him looking up from his close reading and concentrate on my approaching figure, with eyes taking a while to focus. Then a big, almost toothless smile and a chubby fingered wave – the type that if you only added a cloth to his hand you would sparkle up a surface. Each time I would slow my arrival and begin the smiling and waving earlier in order to compensate.
But then things changed. He began sporting shades – oversized ones no less – and thought that was the end of his eyesight as he had become more Stevie Wonder than Herbie Hancock. So of course I found it a little odd he would begin his toothless smile, cleaning wave combo when I was half way down the street.
This then escalated to recognising me in the scant light of dusk and even when I was on the other side of the road. He was beginning to freak me out with his blind man with super eyesight deal so I obviously decided to experiment with just how bionic his eyesight was. Across the road, amongst a crowd, while he was distracted – he'd stop me every time.
Then the dark glasses went but the ability remained. Granted, it was less disconcerting than being spotted half way down the street, across the road and in he dark by a man in his 70s sporting thick, dark glasses. There was only one logical explanation for this and that was happened to be in possession of cyborg eyes as part of a secret government project to have elderly newsagents around the city clock the comings and goings of foreigners.
Also, he may or may not have gained the ability to see into my mind as you just never know what they can devise nowadays. Well as they say: it's better to be safe and paranoid rather than exposed for being a bourgeois intruder and thrown into jail for minding your own own business.
Anyway, now we have returned to our routine of smiling, waving and asking if we have eaten. However, I also pepper good thoughts into the mix as you just never know.
Pushing 70 he sat perched on his stool, surrounded by his magazines and newspapers arranged Herbie Hancock keyboard style around the musician. Everything within reach and most likely in the same arrangement since the chairman (version 1.0) was a boy.
Curiously, one of my first thoughts when seeing locals of such seniority is to wonder just how much they have gone through. What they would have seen and experienced, even the amount of things they would and wouldn't want to remember would boggle my relatively sedately experienced mind.
So there he would perch, unaware I'm picturing him doing his Herbie Hancock impersonation 40 years in the past, staring at a printed page an inch from his face. Now there was a man who had over partaken in his wares and caused his eyes to shut down with one too many printed letters.
If only I possessed a vocabulary superior to the intellectually challenged infant's one I have. I imagined he could tell me every news article ever published since they invented the printing press – if not paper itself. Or perhaps he was more of a trash man and the comings and goings of China's Paris Hilton was his subject of choice. Then I would remember the tendencies of the older generation to rabbit on and my tendency to nod, smile and listen; so I thought it best for me that language barrier remained.
This of course is a perfectly reasonable excuse not to learn a language – "Thanks but no thanks, old people will want to speak with me and I don't know how to say no to them."
So instead, he would great me with a, "Hello, have you eaten?" This would usually be proceeded by him looking up from his close reading and concentrate on my approaching figure, with eyes taking a while to focus. Then a big, almost toothless smile and a chubby fingered wave – the type that if you only added a cloth to his hand you would sparkle up a surface. Each time I would slow my arrival and begin the smiling and waving earlier in order to compensate.
But then things changed. He began sporting shades – oversized ones no less – and thought that was the end of his eyesight as he had become more Stevie Wonder than Herbie Hancock. So of course I found it a little odd he would begin his toothless smile, cleaning wave combo when I was half way down the street.
This then escalated to recognising me in the scant light of dusk and even when I was on the other side of the road. He was beginning to freak me out with his blind man with super eyesight deal so I obviously decided to experiment with just how bionic his eyesight was. Across the road, amongst a crowd, while he was distracted – he'd stop me every time.
Then the dark glasses went but the ability remained. Granted, it was less disconcerting than being spotted half way down the street, across the road and in he dark by a man in his 70s sporting thick, dark glasses. There was only one logical explanation for this and that was happened to be in possession of cyborg eyes as part of a secret government project to have elderly newsagents around the city clock the comings and goings of foreigners.
Also, he may or may not have gained the ability to see into my mind as you just never know what they can devise nowadays. Well as they say: it's better to be safe and paranoid rather than exposed for being a bourgeois intruder and thrown into jail for minding your own own business.
Anyway, now we have returned to our routine of smiling, waving and asking if we have eaten. However, I also pepper good thoughts into the mix as you just never know.
Do you have your papers?
The police stood in the well-lit lobby, hovering over the front desk and the guard (not sure if that's the most accurate term as he doesn't tend to guard anything) sitting there. It looked a formal visit as there was no tea and biscuits being shared between them. And besides, how could you not add a solemn air to the occasion when garbed head to toe in black and shiny silver details – just ask Karl Lagerfeld.
As they weren't there for a 8pm tea break it was safe to assume they were most likely performing the new favourite past time of the authorities: random illegal foreigner searches. The fact they were from the Immigration Department kind of gave it away.
Now as it so happened that my friend and I were foreigners and were at that moment setting foot into that same lobby, their collective spider sense kicked in and they all looked at us.
Three pairs of police-trained eyeballs stared my way as if I had just let loose with an unamusing tale of political incorrect content. Or perhaps that's how I always feel when people in Immigration Department uniforms stare at me.
They sauntered into action. Policeman #1, who I shall call Chatty, launched into a well-rehearsed opener, "Hello, do you live here? Do you have identification on you?" The other two, a woman I like to call Chick and an older, serious gent called Churlish stood as back up in case I planned to tackle Chatty in response.
Out came a large smile in an effort to appear as cool and friendly as possible (although I don't know how much that would have helped as with the revelation of so much teeth they may have thought I intended to start biting). It was all I could do to refrain from throwing my arms in the air and run screaming into the night.
We told them that we did indeed live there and although neither had passports on us they were welcome to come up and to the apartment while we retrieved them. Being the agreeable kind they accepted the invitation, so we all piled into the lift.
Along for the ride was an unsuspecting Frenchman who was instantly quizzed by Chatty and his rehearsed opener. No, he didn't live there and was simply visiting his friend. When prompted further he told them the floor but didn't quite recall the actual apartment number. Now, I'm not trained in the mystic art of policing but it sounded to me like he was talking rubbish. Perhaps Chatty also suspected as much as he informed Frenchguy that they would visit his friend after finishing with us.
He said it with a smile but to me it sounded like a threat.
Thankfully there were two of us, as one could entertain the coppers at the door while the other retrieves the relevant paperwork. I was a little rusty with police-at-your-door-while-you-have-to-look-for-your-papers etiquette. Do you shut the door on them as they are strangers or do you leave it open while you exit to another room to retrieve your things? They're police right? They wouldn't steal your stuff would they?
And just how do you respond when they comment that your home is large and must be worth a bit?
Anyway, dilemma (and difficult conversations) avoided as they scanned our visas. Chick made a note in her book, her book of 'foreigners who have been naughty and nice'. These probably contained the apartments in the building and who was who within them.
Her note was probably a tick of approval as we were a-okay. Everybody happy, the police were sent on their way – probably to deal with Frenchguy and his 'friend'.
I knew this day would come (although I didn't suspect it to be evening, more like a early Saturday morning raid). There had been much talk in ex-pat circles of police doing checks on illegal visitors throughout the country. The days of getting whatever visa (or not) and doing whatever we wanted seemed to be coming to a close.
Rumour and innuendo is how it all gets around here. Things are exaggerated for maximum impact, effect and 'ahhh's'. Everybody knows of somebody but nobody actually knows first hand. People were being denied for no longer being qualified for the job they had been holding for the past three years, and others were sent home because they ran a red light on their scooter. Apparently bars were also suffering as alcoholic westerners were no longer keeping them afloat. The world was coming to an end.
For a government big on order, the number of unknown illegal residents is a concern – especially when the world is watching. There is something between an expectation and a demand that the Olympic Games go on without a hiccup so everyone in, or coming into the country must be accounted for.
The timing of the Government crackdown may have just coincided with the Olympics or may be a reaction to the events in Tibet. Perhaps it is an effort to clean house before all the guests arrive, or it was something on the cards for a long time. Either way, ex-pats hiss the name "Olympics" whenever anything goes amiss. You stub a toe, get served a bad meal, a car cuts in front of you – it's all the fault of the Olympics.
It's becoming increasingly difficult to obtain visas and the process is no longer something you can do via a local visa company. You have to rock up and wait in person now (and more often as even the duration of visas have been shortened).
The visa we have all previously relied on as the one of choice was the Business Visa. Easy to obtain, valid for six months and ambiguous enough in definition to cover most ambiguous circumstances. It was perfect. Now, unless you're on a conference, business exchange or some such nonsense it's no longer for you.
It's also not something you can cleverly avoid as all visas end in August and need to be re-applied. Some will find it tough, for others it will be the end of their China adventure, but as I am gainfully employed I can obtain a Working Visa and avoid the fuss. What it really means is that a company is vouching for me, kind of like a member of the mafia giving the okay to one of their own with the words, "He's a friend of ours."
The latest is that to get your grubby hands on the he's a friend of ours Visa one needs to return to their home country. I don't know if this is for anything other than because we say so reasons but such a process requires a long flight and not so long queue.
This little bit of information was brought to my attention by a stony faced Immigration Department official. It only took one look at my Business Visa for him to cheerily (well, as cheerful as someone lacking emotions gets) inform me that I had "No chance" of remaining in the country.
You see, months after my Immigration spot check, my I was not in any position to make it into Chick's good books. I was part of the August exodus where all I could do was obediently go home, which I obediently did. And then obediently returned, with brand spanking new stamps, in time for a new working week no less.
So now fully armed with Government approved paperwork I'll be ready if I find Chatty, Chick and Churlish once again on my doorstep one fine evening.
As they weren't there for a 8pm tea break it was safe to assume they were most likely performing the new favourite past time of the authorities: random illegal foreigner searches. The fact they were from the Immigration Department kind of gave it away.
Now as it so happened that my friend and I were foreigners and were at that moment setting foot into that same lobby, their collective spider sense kicked in and they all looked at us.
Three pairs of police-trained eyeballs stared my way as if I had just let loose with an unamusing tale of political incorrect content. Or perhaps that's how I always feel when people in Immigration Department uniforms stare at me.
They sauntered into action. Policeman #1, who I shall call Chatty, launched into a well-rehearsed opener, "Hello, do you live here? Do you have identification on you?" The other two, a woman I like to call Chick and an older, serious gent called Churlish stood as back up in case I planned to tackle Chatty in response.
Out came a large smile in an effort to appear as cool and friendly as possible (although I don't know how much that would have helped as with the revelation of so much teeth they may have thought I intended to start biting). It was all I could do to refrain from throwing my arms in the air and run screaming into the night.
We told them that we did indeed live there and although neither had passports on us they were welcome to come up and to the apartment while we retrieved them. Being the agreeable kind they accepted the invitation, so we all piled into the lift.
Along for the ride was an unsuspecting Frenchman who was instantly quizzed by Chatty and his rehearsed opener. No, he didn't live there and was simply visiting his friend. When prompted further he told them the floor but didn't quite recall the actual apartment number. Now, I'm not trained in the mystic art of policing but it sounded to me like he was talking rubbish. Perhaps Chatty also suspected as much as he informed Frenchguy that they would visit his friend after finishing with us.
He said it with a smile but to me it sounded like a threat.
Thankfully there were two of us, as one could entertain the coppers at the door while the other retrieves the relevant paperwork. I was a little rusty with police-at-your-door-while-you-have-to-look-for-your-papers etiquette. Do you shut the door on them as they are strangers or do you leave it open while you exit to another room to retrieve your things? They're police right? They wouldn't steal your stuff would they?
And just how do you respond when they comment that your home is large and must be worth a bit?
Anyway, dilemma (and difficult conversations) avoided as they scanned our visas. Chick made a note in her book, her book of 'foreigners who have been naughty and nice'. These probably contained the apartments in the building and who was who within them.
Her note was probably a tick of approval as we were a-okay. Everybody happy, the police were sent on their way – probably to deal with Frenchguy and his 'friend'.
I knew this day would come (although I didn't suspect it to be evening, more like a early Saturday morning raid). There had been much talk in ex-pat circles of police doing checks on illegal visitors throughout the country. The days of getting whatever visa (or not) and doing whatever we wanted seemed to be coming to a close.
Rumour and innuendo is how it all gets around here. Things are exaggerated for maximum impact, effect and 'ahhh's'. Everybody knows of somebody but nobody actually knows first hand. People were being denied for no longer being qualified for the job they had been holding for the past three years, and others were sent home because they ran a red light on their scooter. Apparently bars were also suffering as alcoholic westerners were no longer keeping them afloat. The world was coming to an end.
For a government big on order, the number of unknown illegal residents is a concern – especially when the world is watching. There is something between an expectation and a demand that the Olympic Games go on without a hiccup so everyone in, or coming into the country must be accounted for.
The timing of the Government crackdown may have just coincided with the Olympics or may be a reaction to the events in Tibet. Perhaps it is an effort to clean house before all the guests arrive, or it was something on the cards for a long time. Either way, ex-pats hiss the name "Olympics" whenever anything goes amiss. You stub a toe, get served a bad meal, a car cuts in front of you – it's all the fault of the Olympics.
It's becoming increasingly difficult to obtain visas and the process is no longer something you can do via a local visa company. You have to rock up and wait in person now (and more often as even the duration of visas have been shortened).
The visa we have all previously relied on as the one of choice was the Business Visa. Easy to obtain, valid for six months and ambiguous enough in definition to cover most ambiguous circumstances. It was perfect. Now, unless you're on a conference, business exchange or some such nonsense it's no longer for you.
It's also not something you can cleverly avoid as all visas end in August and need to be re-applied. Some will find it tough, for others it will be the end of their China adventure, but as I am gainfully employed I can obtain a Working Visa and avoid the fuss. What it really means is that a company is vouching for me, kind of like a member of the mafia giving the okay to one of their own with the words, "He's a friend of ours."
The latest is that to get your grubby hands on the he's a friend of ours Visa one needs to return to their home country. I don't know if this is for anything other than because we say so reasons but such a process requires a long flight and not so long queue.
This little bit of information was brought to my attention by a stony faced Immigration Department official. It only took one look at my Business Visa for him to cheerily (well, as cheerful as someone lacking emotions gets) inform me that I had "No chance" of remaining in the country.
You see, months after my Immigration spot check, my I was not in any position to make it into Chick's good books. I was part of the August exodus where all I could do was obediently go home, which I obediently did. And then obediently returned, with brand spanking new stamps, in time for a new working week no less.
So now fully armed with Government approved paperwork I'll be ready if I find Chatty, Chick and Churlish once again on my doorstep one fine evening.
Star Spotting
When it comes to celebrities Jay Chou is as celebrated as you can get over here. This young man typifies the Chinese standard of talented jack of all trades. He's a musician, actor, director and the face of pretty much every product that doesn't have the hurdler Liu Xiang's mug on it.
So it was surprising to see him take a seat nearby. I was in a bar with my trusty partner in crime, minding our own business and there he was – just like that. No fanfare, no virgins scattering his path with rose petals, just him and three friends. By the way, sitting in bars is not all I do here – I also sit in nightclubs and the occasional pub.
Anyway, as I wasn't facing in Jay's particular direction I was informed of his arrival. This is not that difficult really as with his long, swooping fringe, delicate features and down-turned mouth, which incidentally lends an unimpressed moodiness to our star; he has a look that hasn't really changed since he was probably three years-old.
Also, the fact his face is everywhere compelling you to buy stuff (funnily enough seeing him did motive me to buy a couple of drinks) it's not one you tend to forget too quickly. If you have lived in China for five minutes you'd be able to pick him out of a line up.
There is a definite cult of celebrity here and there's certainly no stigma in using them to sell anything – even if they have no link whatsoever to what is being sold. However, you would no doubt be surprised to know that the government has always tried to control in some ways the type of celebrities being worshipped. They would have to be worthy of such a title and be an inspiration to wayward, crazy kids. So as a result reality shows would be based on obvious talents or skills rather than who could sit in a share house the longest.
Even hosts of TV shows are no longer supposed to fill in time with idle gossip or flirting. Actually, I didn't realise they were filling in time, I thought that was the entire point of those shows. So I suppose that means that over here we are unfortunately denied the remarkable sight that is footballers in drag.
But Jay wasn't in drag, he was just being Jay so that was enough.
Being the cool, composed adults who are closer to middle age than infancy that we were, we giggled and concocted a plan to join his entourage. We figured as we were two white people playing Chinese dice games we'd surely be in. To some Chinese we were providing a spectacle that was part culturally relevant and part freak show.
It didn't seem difficult as accompanying him was what appeared to be his girlfriend and another couple. Okay, I thought, he was having a low-key evening with friends. He was in need of posse enlargement as far as we were concerned but then again what we may have been concerned about Jay may not have.
Although it was odd that there wasn't a great deal of fuss being made by his presence, I figured maybe it was the result of him keeping is head down and the the relative solitude of his location. Actually, it was safe to say the entire bar was rather solitary. Maybe nobody else was as eagle-eyed as yours truly. That in itself is a rather funny statement as I haven't been known to be the most perceptive person, more like a "Oh, is that a fire engulfing the entire room?" type of guy. Maybe everyone else was cooler than me and just didn't care.
I had heard the stories that our Jay was a brat but the media here sometimes enjoys cutting down the odd tall poppy or two. And besides, who believes everything they read?
The dice game was going badly for me (as it generally does) and in between sips of what can be best described as 'battery acid and dry' I thought we needed to employ modern technology. Thankfully Shanghai is awash with WIFI hotspots, so much so I take it for granted that I can gain access to the internet almost anywhere. It's a lovely piece of irony actually that in this communist state information (although restricted) is free and readily available while in Australia if you're not paying you're not receiving.
Well, the guy on the couch did look like the photo on the Wikipedia page displayed on my phone. I thought to impress him with random facts pertaining to his life but thought it may just creep him out. The plan at that stage was not to creep him out but seek an alternate means to gain access to his inner circle of peeps.
When my dice-winning companion excused herself to go to the bathroom an opportunity presented itself. Jay was also on his own.
No, I didn't stare at him continuously for a good five minutes until he became uncomfortable and looked nervously back at me. I casually glanced in his direction and as, across the smoke-hazed room, our eyes met he smiled and gave me a thumbs up. Sure his glazed over eyes gave away the fact he was drunk but nonetheless, this celeb fellow was alright.
Seizing my opportunity – like a lioness leaping on to the hide quarters of a zebra and begins to chew before the hapless victim has time to comprehend the hopelessness of its predicament – I approached Jay.
I introduced myself as if I didn't know who he was, to which he responded, "I'm Damon, nice to meet you." Okay, perhaps he wasn't a Taiwanese superstar but a hairdresser from Nanjing. Close but not quite the same thing.
After another couple of rounds my friend and I did achieve the mission of joining an entourage, only it was that of Damon the hairdresser's. Of course he could have been Jay in disguise as I didn't see Damon cut anyone's hair – or even remotely comment on anyone's style. In fact come to think of it, none of his group had over-coiffed do's. Damn! It appears Jay Chou gave me the slip with his cunning disguise within a disguise.
I'll have to be more vigilant next time.
So it was surprising to see him take a seat nearby. I was in a bar with my trusty partner in crime, minding our own business and there he was – just like that. No fanfare, no virgins scattering his path with rose petals, just him and three friends. By the way, sitting in bars is not all I do here – I also sit in nightclubs and the occasional pub.
Anyway, as I wasn't facing in Jay's particular direction I was informed of his arrival. This is not that difficult really as with his long, swooping fringe, delicate features and down-turned mouth, which incidentally lends an unimpressed moodiness to our star; he has a look that hasn't really changed since he was probably three years-old.
Also, the fact his face is everywhere compelling you to buy stuff (funnily enough seeing him did motive me to buy a couple of drinks) it's not one you tend to forget too quickly. If you have lived in China for five minutes you'd be able to pick him out of a line up.
There is a definite cult of celebrity here and there's certainly no stigma in using them to sell anything – even if they have no link whatsoever to what is being sold. However, you would no doubt be surprised to know that the government has always tried to control in some ways the type of celebrities being worshipped. They would have to be worthy of such a title and be an inspiration to wayward, crazy kids. So as a result reality shows would be based on obvious talents or skills rather than who could sit in a share house the longest.
Even hosts of TV shows are no longer supposed to fill in time with idle gossip or flirting. Actually, I didn't realise they were filling in time, I thought that was the entire point of those shows. So I suppose that means that over here we are unfortunately denied the remarkable sight that is footballers in drag.
But Jay wasn't in drag, he was just being Jay so that was enough.
Being the cool, composed adults who are closer to middle age than infancy that we were, we giggled and concocted a plan to join his entourage. We figured as we were two white people playing Chinese dice games we'd surely be in. To some Chinese we were providing a spectacle that was part culturally relevant and part freak show.
It didn't seem difficult as accompanying him was what appeared to be his girlfriend and another couple. Okay, I thought, he was having a low-key evening with friends. He was in need of posse enlargement as far as we were concerned but then again what we may have been concerned about Jay may not have.
Although it was odd that there wasn't a great deal of fuss being made by his presence, I figured maybe it was the result of him keeping is head down and the the relative solitude of his location. Actually, it was safe to say the entire bar was rather solitary. Maybe nobody else was as eagle-eyed as yours truly. That in itself is a rather funny statement as I haven't been known to be the most perceptive person, more like a "Oh, is that a fire engulfing the entire room?" type of guy. Maybe everyone else was cooler than me and just didn't care.
I had heard the stories that our Jay was a brat but the media here sometimes enjoys cutting down the odd tall poppy or two. And besides, who believes everything they read?
The dice game was going badly for me (as it generally does) and in between sips of what can be best described as 'battery acid and dry' I thought we needed to employ modern technology. Thankfully Shanghai is awash with WIFI hotspots, so much so I take it for granted that I can gain access to the internet almost anywhere. It's a lovely piece of irony actually that in this communist state information (although restricted) is free and readily available while in Australia if you're not paying you're not receiving.
Well, the guy on the couch did look like the photo on the Wikipedia page displayed on my phone. I thought to impress him with random facts pertaining to his life but thought it may just creep him out. The plan at that stage was not to creep him out but seek an alternate means to gain access to his inner circle of peeps.
When my dice-winning companion excused herself to go to the bathroom an opportunity presented itself. Jay was also on his own.
No, I didn't stare at him continuously for a good five minutes until he became uncomfortable and looked nervously back at me. I casually glanced in his direction and as, across the smoke-hazed room, our eyes met he smiled and gave me a thumbs up. Sure his glazed over eyes gave away the fact he was drunk but nonetheless, this celeb fellow was alright.
Seizing my opportunity – like a lioness leaping on to the hide quarters of a zebra and begins to chew before the hapless victim has time to comprehend the hopelessness of its predicament – I approached Jay.
I introduced myself as if I didn't know who he was, to which he responded, "I'm Damon, nice to meet you." Okay, perhaps he wasn't a Taiwanese superstar but a hairdresser from Nanjing. Close but not quite the same thing.
After another couple of rounds my friend and I did achieve the mission of joining an entourage, only it was that of Damon the hairdresser's. Of course he could have been Jay in disguise as I didn't see Damon cut anyone's hair – or even remotely comment on anyone's style. In fact come to think of it, none of his group had over-coiffed do's. Damn! It appears Jay Chou gave me the slip with his cunning disguise within a disguise.
I'll have to be more vigilant next time.
It huffed and it puffed but didn't blow my house down
I swear it was summer yesterday. That's how quickly the seasons change here as there's no try before you buy mentality about it. It's just summer – and proper hot summer mind you – then winter. Just like that.
By summer's end I'd been wearing shorts daily for three months so naturally there's a real reluctance to start dressing like an adult. However, there's also a reluctancy to go native and roll my T-shirt just above my nipples and my pants above my knees. The look is completed by summer nylon socks but really, aren't these just extremely short pantyhose?
Well, today I had to concede defeat. This is just as well as autumn has had its one day and is almost over anyway.
Shanghai is a place that possesses only two seasons – summer and winter – and all we seem to do in the ones that are left is blink and miss them. No, actually, Autumn is spent worrying about the approaching cold of winter. I've ahh, 'enjoyed' a number of winters here and I don't think I'll ever get used to it.
As I tend to enjoy complaining about the cold I'm often asked what my home town is like in comparison. When I mention that you'd be lucky to get below double figures without fail I receive a look, or is that an eye roll? Either way they never take me seriously again and my cunning disguise as a rugged Marlboro Man is irreparably smashed. The fact I don't possess a horse kind of weakens my case anyway.
But at least it's not typhoon season. According to international news reports it seemed the end really was nigh for good ol' Shangers. So us doomed residents of the soon to be under ten metres of Pacific Ocean city text messaged one another, warning those that live under a rock (yours truly) of the dangers lurking if we decide to poke our heads out of said rock. We were all kind of aware something was up, what with the continuous three days of heavy rain and sudden gusts of wind but as children weren't swept up into air clutching little rainbow coloured umbrellas for dear life, we realised it couldn't have been that major.
In fact, half way through the event (if you can actually call it that) I became tired of it and went out for a coffee. It was kind of like stepping out onto a Melbourne street on our football grand final day. Before it actually happens people scurry along, arms loaded with supplies as they need to be elsewhere; wherever, just not wherever it was they were. Then when it's on you have the place to yourself.
Getting to the point: nothing happened, well nothing I had not seen here before – it's been wetter, it's been windier, and yes, it's been more of both. Apparently 2 million people were evacuated but then again that's the size of a Shanghai city block... a small one.
And let me remind you, when no super typhoon-that-will-kill-you-if-you-set-eyes-on-it comes to devastate, then there's no looting afterwards. Shame as I was all pumped to go. I considered getting the ball rolling and loot the cafe I was sipping my latte in but thought I should at least wait until the electricity gave way first. As I waited for my opportunity I realised that this was yet another typhoon aimed at Taiwan only to limp on to the Chinese mainland.
Personally I think the whole typhoon thing is a weather controlling plot from China aimed at scaring that ungrateful, renegade province of Taiwan back into the waiting, welcoming arms of the motherland. Then the motherland will cook up a pot of her famous chicken soup and everyone will be happy, link arms and sing in the streets.
But like a obstinate child that it is it just won't listen to reason but that's okay, we will wait.
I celebrated my third birthday at a music festival, along with 2,000 other people – who may or may not have had things to celebrate themselves. It was held outside, which I think if I was a multi-fingered amputee I could count on one hand the number that have been held before. But you have to start somewhere. And this just happened to be it.
I must admit though, on paper it didn't really fill me with excitement, as it comprised of six acts of vastly different genres. Perhaps it was more a festival sampler rather than one in its own right but for this city it was a fair effort. The corresponding event in Beijing was stretched over two days and while it was the national week public holiday – or golden week as everyone calls it here, seven days of goldeny good times – our northern neighbours decided to host another music festival for good measure. You know, since all this Olympic business started they're just out of control up there.
Anyway, let me present THE OLD PERSON'S GUIDE TO SURVIVING (no matter how small) SHANGHAI MUSIC FESTIVAL:
First of all, schedule your arrival for about half way through the penultimate act's performance as besides, it's not a genre in the sampler you'd be interested in anyway. By the way, to sweeten the deal, make sure you know someone involved with the event so you don't have to pay for the two hours you'll be there. This would also aid in the cred factor as let's face it, you gotta take whatever you can get.
While held within a city park and host to quite a good turnout, the jaded veteran needs to remark, at least every half an hour, that at so-and-so there were more people. Easy enough if the numbers are small but never let a small things like that stop you and your memories.
When the headline act makes an appearance remember to be standing at an enviable position, the more forward the better. Then, as the performance progresses, lose interest and drift of to the edge, letting the children fight their disorganised arses to the front.
There's always some sort of born-again hippie nearby dancing in the way only they seem to know how, so no matter what don't EVER be tempted to join in. Even after a hundred beers it's just as wrong. All you'll achieve is looking like you only go out in public once every leap year.
Oh, and by the way, if you really must hoist children (I mean real children this time) onto your shoulders remember to squat down so they can climb aboard. As tempting as it sounds, try not to throw them onto your shoulders. Why? Well, you're bound to topple backwards with the kid falling the furthest. I don't know what the rules were (assuming there was perhaps one or two) but I assumed that it wasn't good to have an all ages event and alcohol.
It was also interesting to note that the extremities came in the form of the western concert goers. Not to say the Chinese didn't get into it, they just didn't need to be the most of anything. In many cases it was about being the most annoying.
Another important point to remember is that while only going as far as head bopping to the main act realise half way in that essentially you suspect them of being a one (or at least two) hit wonder. Once realised it's easy to decide to leave pre-encore – Okay, we've finished – No! Please one more! – No sorry, that's the end – No! More! – Oh, well then, if you insist.
It will be easier to leave as soon as you realise that they won't be playing their hit, as they already have; so get a taxi before the swarm descends. And while they're fighting for the limited number of taxis you'll already be home with a good book and a cuppa.
So there you go and unlike this story: it's quick, easy, and relatively painless.
There's another scheduled for this weekend. This is just a little different in the way a mouse is just a little bit different to a 747. Festival number two is focused to a single genre and has a local line up that requires them to play for half an hour over two days – so there's a little more than six acts to worry about. I won't be there as due to the regulations in my survival guide only one festival can be enjoyed per month.
However, the most disconcerting thing about all of this is that it is advertised as a beach festival. That's great. Only problem I foresee is that, well, Shanghai has no beaches. No, actually we have one that's as fake as the Louis Vuitton bags the cleaning ladies clutch on to as they arrive to work. Now who said the Chinese working class are underpaid when they can all have European designer goods?
So the beach has sand dumped in from somewhere else and the water is dyed blue so apparently if you wear white into the surf, you emerge with blue-tinted togs. Actually the Chinese powers that be have nothing to do with it; this is really God's way of telling you that white bathing gear is wrong.
So now, from the beginning of this story to now it's probably winter outside. This is good as I can now stop complaining about it coming but rather about it being here.
By summer's end I'd been wearing shorts daily for three months so naturally there's a real reluctance to start dressing like an adult. However, there's also a reluctancy to go native and roll my T-shirt just above my nipples and my pants above my knees. The look is completed by summer nylon socks but really, aren't these just extremely short pantyhose?
Well, today I had to concede defeat. This is just as well as autumn has had its one day and is almost over anyway.
Shanghai is a place that possesses only two seasons – summer and winter – and all we seem to do in the ones that are left is blink and miss them. No, actually, Autumn is spent worrying about the approaching cold of winter. I've ahh, 'enjoyed' a number of winters here and I don't think I'll ever get used to it.
As I tend to enjoy complaining about the cold I'm often asked what my home town is like in comparison. When I mention that you'd be lucky to get below double figures without fail I receive a look, or is that an eye roll? Either way they never take me seriously again and my cunning disguise as a rugged Marlboro Man is irreparably smashed. The fact I don't possess a horse kind of weakens my case anyway.
But at least it's not typhoon season. According to international news reports it seemed the end really was nigh for good ol' Shangers. So us doomed residents of the soon to be under ten metres of Pacific Ocean city text messaged one another, warning those that live under a rock (yours truly) of the dangers lurking if we decide to poke our heads out of said rock. We were all kind of aware something was up, what with the continuous three days of heavy rain and sudden gusts of wind but as children weren't swept up into air clutching little rainbow coloured umbrellas for dear life, we realised it couldn't have been that major.
In fact, half way through the event (if you can actually call it that) I became tired of it and went out for a coffee. It was kind of like stepping out onto a Melbourne street on our football grand final day. Before it actually happens people scurry along, arms loaded with supplies as they need to be elsewhere; wherever, just not wherever it was they were. Then when it's on you have the place to yourself.
Getting to the point: nothing happened, well nothing I had not seen here before – it's been wetter, it's been windier, and yes, it's been more of both. Apparently 2 million people were evacuated but then again that's the size of a Shanghai city block... a small one.
And let me remind you, when no super typhoon-that-will-kill-you-if-you-set-eyes-on-it comes to devastate, then there's no looting afterwards. Shame as I was all pumped to go. I considered getting the ball rolling and loot the cafe I was sipping my latte in but thought I should at least wait until the electricity gave way first. As I waited for my opportunity I realised that this was yet another typhoon aimed at Taiwan only to limp on to the Chinese mainland.
Personally I think the whole typhoon thing is a weather controlling plot from China aimed at scaring that ungrateful, renegade province of Taiwan back into the waiting, welcoming arms of the motherland. Then the motherland will cook up a pot of her famous chicken soup and everyone will be happy, link arms and sing in the streets.
But like a obstinate child that it is it just won't listen to reason but that's okay, we will wait.
I celebrated my third birthday at a music festival, along with 2,000 other people – who may or may not have had things to celebrate themselves. It was held outside, which I think if I was a multi-fingered amputee I could count on one hand the number that have been held before. But you have to start somewhere. And this just happened to be it.
I must admit though, on paper it didn't really fill me with excitement, as it comprised of six acts of vastly different genres. Perhaps it was more a festival sampler rather than one in its own right but for this city it was a fair effort. The corresponding event in Beijing was stretched over two days and while it was the national week public holiday – or golden week as everyone calls it here, seven days of goldeny good times – our northern neighbours decided to host another music festival for good measure. You know, since all this Olympic business started they're just out of control up there.
Anyway, let me present THE OLD PERSON'S GUIDE TO SURVIVING (no matter how small) SHANGHAI MUSIC FESTIVAL:
First of all, schedule your arrival for about half way through the penultimate act's performance as besides, it's not a genre in the sampler you'd be interested in anyway. By the way, to sweeten the deal, make sure you know someone involved with the event so you don't have to pay for the two hours you'll be there. This would also aid in the cred factor as let's face it, you gotta take whatever you can get.
While held within a city park and host to quite a good turnout, the jaded veteran needs to remark, at least every half an hour, that at so-and-so there were more people. Easy enough if the numbers are small but never let a small things like that stop you and your memories.
When the headline act makes an appearance remember to be standing at an enviable position, the more forward the better. Then, as the performance progresses, lose interest and drift of to the edge, letting the children fight their disorganised arses to the front.
There's always some sort of born-again hippie nearby dancing in the way only they seem to know how, so no matter what don't EVER be tempted to join in. Even after a hundred beers it's just as wrong. All you'll achieve is looking like you only go out in public once every leap year.
Oh, and by the way, if you really must hoist children (I mean real children this time) onto your shoulders remember to squat down so they can climb aboard. As tempting as it sounds, try not to throw them onto your shoulders. Why? Well, you're bound to topple backwards with the kid falling the furthest. I don't know what the rules were (assuming there was perhaps one or two) but I assumed that it wasn't good to have an all ages event and alcohol.
It was also interesting to note that the extremities came in the form of the western concert goers. Not to say the Chinese didn't get into it, they just didn't need to be the most of anything. In many cases it was about being the most annoying.
Another important point to remember is that while only going as far as head bopping to the main act realise half way in that essentially you suspect them of being a one (or at least two) hit wonder. Once realised it's easy to decide to leave pre-encore – Okay, we've finished – No! Please one more! – No sorry, that's the end – No! More! – Oh, well then, if you insist.
It will be easier to leave as soon as you realise that they won't be playing their hit, as they already have; so get a taxi before the swarm descends. And while they're fighting for the limited number of taxis you'll already be home with a good book and a cuppa.
So there you go and unlike this story: it's quick, easy, and relatively painless.
There's another scheduled for this weekend. This is just a little different in the way a mouse is just a little bit different to a 747. Festival number two is focused to a single genre and has a local line up that requires them to play for half an hour over two days – so there's a little more than six acts to worry about. I won't be there as due to the regulations in my survival guide only one festival can be enjoyed per month.
However, the most disconcerting thing about all of this is that it is advertised as a beach festival. That's great. Only problem I foresee is that, well, Shanghai has no beaches. No, actually we have one that's as fake as the Louis Vuitton bags the cleaning ladies clutch on to as they arrive to work. Now who said the Chinese working class are underpaid when they can all have European designer goods?
So the beach has sand dumped in from somewhere else and the water is dyed blue so apparently if you wear white into the surf, you emerge with blue-tinted togs. Actually the Chinese powers that be have nothing to do with it; this is really God's way of telling you that white bathing gear is wrong.
So now, from the beginning of this story to now it's probably winter outside. This is good as I can now stop complaining about it coming but rather about it being here.
Guess who’s coming to dinner?
This was a story that seemed more likely to have come out of a visit to Tokyo but that's the enduring beauty of living here. Shanghai likes to mix it up a little for its residence and give you a taste of life from many far-flung locales. It's good that way. So anything can and everything does happen: even dining with the yakuza.
I should have realised something was up when permission was asked from four men on whether or not my friends and I could sit at their table. Their table was surrounding a tepanyaki hotplate where a chef was making himself busy doing chef things. The men themselves looked like comic book characters: the boss, the silent guy, the joker, and the guy who most definitely knew how to use a gun.
They were in a jovial mood as at the end of their meal they were on the liquid last course. As three Australians in need of an all you can eat Japanese gorge-fest we obviously posed no threat, so they allowed us to sit and the bonding began.
It started with the tattoos. Those that may not be aware, the Virgin Mary sits on my shoulder and it can be best described as pretty. They acknowledged its prettiness and in response the boss lifted his shirt, revealing the five entwining snakes full-body number. It most definitely would not be described as pretty. Anyway, I was in. Yakuza member number five, token white guy, whatever you wish to call it.
This, as well as all other points of conversation, was met with a loud call for cheers and the downing of tiny sake cups.
I sat next to the guy who I decided was the bodyguard, or hitman, or chief hard-arse, as he cast a watchful eye over everything. So while watchful eye was watching, the boss kept engaging me in conversation. Actually, due to his inebriated state he really just engaged me in the same conversation at least eight times. I varied my answers to make it sound like were getting somewhere.
The joker was their local rep. Now whether he was in the same business I wasn't sure as he held himself a little differently for the rest, more gangly than gangster. Of course, my previous organised crime experience was pretty limited but he appeared to be the fourth member of the band. What was evident was the hierarchy of the group, there was silence from all as the boss spoke and all listened respectfully to whatever it was he had to say.
He also led the cheering and thankfully that wasn't too frequent as although they had a head start I was a useless drinker. I was weighing up the Yakuza etiquette faux pas of declining to down my sake versus vomiting the same sake on his shoes.
Maybe that's exactly what was on silent man's mind as he remained, well... silent, and the bodyguard may have allowed the corners of his mouth to raise a little. Or perhaps he had a twitch. He was sober by the way as what good was a drunk bodyguard to anyone?
At one point the boss informed the table that he was a bad man and displayed his three mutilated fingers that lacked their top halves. This was the price paid for transgressions in the organisation of men with tatts that are not considered pretty.
Now whether that meant he was out of the game or had made mistakes I didn't ask. I thought they were more second date questions after all.
And as quickly as I was in, living the gangsta life, it was over. It was time for them to leave and do whatever it was that yakuza members do after a meal, so they informed the restaurant owner that all our meals were on them. When I say 'on them' I mean on their ongoing tab that the owner wouldn't dream of making them pay.
I may as well stay on the vice theme and inform you that there is a sex shop at the end of my street. This realisation is relatively new to me so hence the rather random information – rather like a child who has just learnt a secret and needs to blurt out. Of course, it took a little while for me to discover this as: A, I'm slow and B, it looks like a chemist, complete with middle-aged women in lab coats so it can really be considered a camouflaged sex shop.
This knowledge did not come about because I have been inside looking for aspirin but because the place is bathed in bright lights and floor to ceiling windows. There are no secrets here, so the entire world can see you perusing the blow-up dolls. Interesting fact: There only appear to be blonde blow-up dolls, which strikes me as funny in China but then again I suppose that means the average Chinese man can indulge in two fantasies at once.
In the entire time I have been aware of this place I think there have only ever been three or four occasions where there have been customers. Naturally they are never who you hope they will be. Well, personally I have never hoped they would be old tradesmen gawking at the merchandise and giggling like school girls.
Oh and by the way, I don't live in the equivalent of vice central, just a lovely corner of the old French Concession which is filled with shoppers pretty much at all times. The Chinese are amazingly practical people so of course that would translate in how they treat sex – sterile and pharmaceutical without the hang-ups of religious guilt that's associated with it in the west.
I might bring that up the next time I find myself at dinner with my gangster peeps as I would rather like to hear their take on the subject. Who knows, they may even tell me they own the place and pick out a nice blonde doll for myself while they put it on their tab.
I should have realised something was up when permission was asked from four men on whether or not my friends and I could sit at their table. Their table was surrounding a tepanyaki hotplate where a chef was making himself busy doing chef things. The men themselves looked like comic book characters: the boss, the silent guy, the joker, and the guy who most definitely knew how to use a gun.
They were in a jovial mood as at the end of their meal they were on the liquid last course. As three Australians in need of an all you can eat Japanese gorge-fest we obviously posed no threat, so they allowed us to sit and the bonding began.
It started with the tattoos. Those that may not be aware, the Virgin Mary sits on my shoulder and it can be best described as pretty. They acknowledged its prettiness and in response the boss lifted his shirt, revealing the five entwining snakes full-body number. It most definitely would not be described as pretty. Anyway, I was in. Yakuza member number five, token white guy, whatever you wish to call it.
This, as well as all other points of conversation, was met with a loud call for cheers and the downing of tiny sake cups.
I sat next to the guy who I decided was the bodyguard, or hitman, or chief hard-arse, as he cast a watchful eye over everything. So while watchful eye was watching, the boss kept engaging me in conversation. Actually, due to his inebriated state he really just engaged me in the same conversation at least eight times. I varied my answers to make it sound like were getting somewhere.
The joker was their local rep. Now whether he was in the same business I wasn't sure as he held himself a little differently for the rest, more gangly than gangster. Of course, my previous organised crime experience was pretty limited but he appeared to be the fourth member of the band. What was evident was the hierarchy of the group, there was silence from all as the boss spoke and all listened respectfully to whatever it was he had to say.
He also led the cheering and thankfully that wasn't too frequent as although they had a head start I was a useless drinker. I was weighing up the Yakuza etiquette faux pas of declining to down my sake versus vomiting the same sake on his shoes.
Maybe that's exactly what was on silent man's mind as he remained, well... silent, and the bodyguard may have allowed the corners of his mouth to raise a little. Or perhaps he had a twitch. He was sober by the way as what good was a drunk bodyguard to anyone?
At one point the boss informed the table that he was a bad man and displayed his three mutilated fingers that lacked their top halves. This was the price paid for transgressions in the organisation of men with tatts that are not considered pretty.
Now whether that meant he was out of the game or had made mistakes I didn't ask. I thought they were more second date questions after all.
And as quickly as I was in, living the gangsta life, it was over. It was time for them to leave and do whatever it was that yakuza members do after a meal, so they informed the restaurant owner that all our meals were on them. When I say 'on them' I mean on their ongoing tab that the owner wouldn't dream of making them pay.
I may as well stay on the vice theme and inform you that there is a sex shop at the end of my street. This realisation is relatively new to me so hence the rather random information – rather like a child who has just learnt a secret and needs to blurt out. Of course, it took a little while for me to discover this as: A, I'm slow and B, it looks like a chemist, complete with middle-aged women in lab coats so it can really be considered a camouflaged sex shop.
This knowledge did not come about because I have been inside looking for aspirin but because the place is bathed in bright lights and floor to ceiling windows. There are no secrets here, so the entire world can see you perusing the blow-up dolls. Interesting fact: There only appear to be blonde blow-up dolls, which strikes me as funny in China but then again I suppose that means the average Chinese man can indulge in two fantasies at once.
In the entire time I have been aware of this place I think there have only ever been three or four occasions where there have been customers. Naturally they are never who you hope they will be. Well, personally I have never hoped they would be old tradesmen gawking at the merchandise and giggling like school girls.
Oh and by the way, I don't live in the equivalent of vice central, just a lovely corner of the old French Concession which is filled with shoppers pretty much at all times. The Chinese are amazingly practical people so of course that would translate in how they treat sex – sterile and pharmaceutical without the hang-ups of religious guilt that's associated with it in the west.
I might bring that up the next time I find myself at dinner with my gangster peeps as I would rather like to hear their take on the subject. Who knows, they may even tell me they own the place and pick out a nice blonde doll for myself while they put it on their tab.
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