The longer I stay the dumber I get

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

Good help is hard to find

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.

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.

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.

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.

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.

The Universal Exposition of 2010

So that's what all the fuss has been about.

All those months after seemingly endless months of blue toothpaste with legs shaped critters greeting me, no matter where my unfortunate eyes would rest. Sure, they'd tell you the Expo mascot, Haibao, is the shape of the Chinese character for 'people' but to me, if persistent in your face annoyance had a shape this would be it.

Of course it all started small – the odd statue on a street corner here and a poster there. But just like the smack habit China's hosting of grand spectaculars has become, it just spiralled out of control. As the numbers on the specially designed Expo reminder clocks counted down to the event opening, there were Haibaos sprouting up as fast as the black death... and almost as much fun.

He'd be on all forms of advertisements that would look down on you from building sized LCD screens and even on the barge that would chug along the Huangpu river, dancing his crazy toothpaste dance and telling us the Expo was on its way.

He starred in his own TV series and been all over any merchandise you could possible imagine. And that said, there's absolutely nothing wrong with adult sized Haibao briefs featuring the little blue freak urging you to come and play. Nothing at all.

Of course, as it's customary to browbeat the local savagery with appropriate etiquette rules it was up to professor Haibao to instruct us all on the dos and don'ts of rushing the traffic light, spitting in public and smuggling explosives on the underground. I don't know about you but I tend to have a real problem anytime my Colgate blue gel lectures me, especially when it comes to explosives.

So just like that we had swapped one cult of personality for another. I suppose it was bound to happen sooner or later as the slow distancing and dismantling of the Great Helmsman's image has reduced him to a kitschy tourist souvenir. He had to be replaced by something and it appears after the casting session was concluded Barbie and Colonel Sanders were pipped at the post by this Gumby knock-off.

Well, at least in its visual plagiarism he does represent what a lot of modern China's ideas are all about. Maybe this was the real point this host nation was trying to make as even the event's theme song was embroiled in a copycat scandal, sounding way too close to a 1990's Japanese pop song for some people's liking. Geez! There's just no pleasing some people.

By the time Expo finally rode into town Mr. H was pretty much absorbed into the crazy Shanghai environment like the carbon monoxide coated air gets absorbed into our healthy grey coloured skin.

However, just when you thought it was done and he couldn't possibly violate your senses any further he literally became part of the landscape, popping up as over-sized topiary wherever topiary could, or even couldn't, be placed.

And just like all good horror movie moments he'd multiply. They'd be an entire troop (or whatever collective noun you wish to use here, perhaps 'murder' would be the most appropriate) dancing and playing musical instruments as they'd welcome and frighten people in equal measure. I'm also pretty sure their goggly eyes would follow you. Maybe to ensure you actually go to the Expo and celebrate the better life this better city is supposed to facilitate. Apparently breathable air isn't part of the better city deal.

The actual opening ceremony wasn't the beginning for most of us, it really signalled the turning into the home stretch after a weary countdown that seemed to start back in Mao's day. It also came with its own inevitable rumour rush of Olympic style craziness. There was a growing apprehension as the event drew near. Maybe the foreigners would be kicked out again due to all sorts of visa regulatory shenanigans and unlike the Olympics, this was a lot longer than a two week wait for the smoke to clear.

The surest sign of an impending international event was that DVD stores went undercover by building secret rooms to house their stock, while the girlie hostess bars on a little seedy strip were closed down. However these didn't hold a candle to the best rumour of doom.

Apparently over the six month course of the Expo all foreigners had to observe a curfew. At the magical time of 11pm we had to scuttle off back to our homes and withdraw for the evening. If by some chance we needed to be out we had to seek permission from our local police station. And if by some chancier chance we were to stay the night anywhere that wasn't our place of residence we had to obtain the necessary paperwork from that locations local fuzz. One happy side effect was that it meant I was going to get home from work a little earlier.

Sure, it had the smell of the paranoid and authoritarian all over it but it seemed so unrealistic an option that even us veterans of the the good old Olympic crackdown of 08 found it hard to believe.

And just as all good things must come to an end, so too did the trillion day countdown to Expo and it finally opened. Of course, in typical Chinese fashion it did so with a bang. Literally. A hundred, thousand fireworks took to the sky and thanks to the opening ceremony rehearsal we were able to experience the sound of a city bombed to oblivion twice.

The office isn't close enough to the Expo site to think it could have much of an effect but obviously I was underestimating the firepower those pesky pyrotechnicians were packing.

At first the low rumble sounded as though a huge storm had dropped out of the sky. However that soon gave way to the suspicion that Armageddon was upon us as the sky thundered more than any sky should. It was only due to my much better informed co-workers letting me know the what's what that I didn't activate my Armageddon looting plan. Shame, as it really is a great plan.

Then it was on for young and old; roll up, roll up and see the world.

And that's what they did. They arrived early and as soon as the doors were opened, bolted to the most popular pavilions faster than you could say... I don't know, something really short. In true Chinese brand loving tradition the popular countries are the Louis Vuitton, Prada and Gucci of the geopolitical world – the US, UK and other top shelf locations.

So the true Expo experience would begin: the good old standing in queue. But not any queue mind you, more like the standing so close to others in queue you can feel buttocks brush on your thigh type the Chinese prefer. Either way, still pretty much unheard of for many here but as the Expo is all about bringing the world to Shanghai then it's only fair some of its customs be experienced as well. Six hour waits are common and 10 hours have even been heard of.

This was for the Saudi Arabian pavilion and their 4D Imax screen depicting life in the kingdom. I don't know, it sounds like a long time to wait for pictures of sand. Oddly enough the North Koreans don't seem to have that problem as they extol the virtues living in the happiest place on earth. I always thought that was Disneyland's line but then again I do tend to get those places confused.

Video sites were awash with locals sprinting to their favourite locations as soon as the site opened in the morning, in order to be as high up the queues as possible. Then came the stories of motorists causing traffic chaos on the bridge overlooking the site as they stopped to photograph or simply gawk. Some didn't even bother to stop as, let's face it, you can always photograph, drive and text at the same time. Yep, Expo was here.

It was inevitable that my time to step foot into the funhouse would finally come. And for that I should thank New Zealand. Obviously my country has no interest in me but our little Polynesian Canada came good with an invite via a film production company. Evening cocktails seemed like a sophisticated way to live the Expo experience so it was off to the show and become one of the half a mil daily attendance figure.

On seeing the partitions at the specially constructed subway station I saw how those numbers were to be handled. Row after row of metal barriers allowed the hordes to be arranged in an ordered manner to file past the metal detector. It was like an airport customs hall expecting the entire Chinese population to drop by. However, at 6pm it simply looked like an oversized cattle sorting yard after the day's market activity.

Effectively this was the Expo's entrance as the next stop would deliver visitors somewhere between the European and Asian zones – think Turkmenistan or something like that.

Since it opened, the Expo had always appeared to be a daytime event where not even shiny light displays could persuade visitors to stay on. Maybe all that standing in line takes a toll after awhile or the understandable fear of vampires, but whatever it was it did make for a more desolate experience.

It was kind of like a huge market with countries spruiking their wares through buskers and food stalls. Actually, it was more like the Melbourne Agricultural Show – without the country ladies competing for the baking honours of the best sponge cake. Admittedly I only took in the sites of the Asia/Oceania Zone so didn't get a complete overview. Of course, possessing a lack of knowledge has never stopped me from commenting before, so why start now?

Even here there were street peddlers selling fake junk laid out on small blankets; a truly Chinese Expo after all. Not to say they were making up for the lack of souvenir shops as there were at least a million of those in the one zone I confined myself to.

The New Zealand pavilion was all a jumble of images displaying a day in the life of its citizens and for their audience – the vast majority of the Chinese population who'll never venture there – that may have been interesting enough. It looked a little like they had reprinted images from an old Encyclopaedia Britannica volume and displayed them on screens.

But all was forgiven when I made my way to the roof and wandered through the artificial greenery 'planted' there. All the trees and plants were props made specifically for the site but it was difficult to tell as it all looked completely authentic. It seemed I wasn't the only one taken in by it as the pavilion guide told me there had been a number of incidences of Chinese visitors attempting to climb the largest tree and cut off a few of its buds. Sure, I'm no gardener but I don't know how well wire and rubber would have grown.

Following the cocktail party it was off to the nearby Australian pavilion before closing time. If you ignored the cafeteria vibe of the lobby and entered into the display area, it all started off well enough. There was a degree of interaction and artistry in the didgeridoo installation but as I ascended the platform to be more of the Australian story, I had the distinct feeling it was really heading downhill.

European settlement was breezed over with a couple of comedic dioramary sculptural pieces (actually, I'd shy away from the word 'sculptural' as that would imply artistry). And then came the facts, all two of them, in rather fancy displays to well, display them in. Apparently there's not a great deal we can be bothered telling the world.

Or we wanted to save it for the whizz-bang finale in the little round theatrette where visitors end their journey. And did we just. The centre convex screens rose and fell in sequence featuring an animation of three children playing and talking absolute rubbish to each other. Oh you know, the old 'what do you want to be when you grow up?' routine all kids love to discuss when perched on a giant head lodged in the sand.

Then to prove the point Australia was the place animated children could be whatever their little cartoon hearts desired, a film sequence displayed the sites of the country. The juxtaposition of imagery was interesting with picturesque natural vistas followed by the mother of all mining holes. All they really needed was a before and after sign.

However eliciting laughs didn't seem to be the aim of this little film, they were more likely going for tedium. Perhaps sprinkled with a bit of horror – as that would explain the music. The film sequence was accompanied by an epilepsy inducing light sequence and music lifted from The Omen films.

It was magic. And while I stood there, mouth agape and more than a little fearful the show was over. A little late for my liking as I had already been eyeing off the emergency exits for the last five minutes. As if this didn't constitute an emergency.

Yes, I know I wasn't the target audience but it had me considering handing in my passport just the same. The French brought their art to the Expo; the Spanish, a Michelin star chef and we had our trauma film.

And so Expo is upon us and despite my visit, would deserve another look in. I mean, there's the rest of the world to be disappointed by and after all that Haibao brainwashing for two years I still feel compelled to see what all the fuss is about.