It's a role I've played here and quite frankly it's one all foreigners take on at some point whether we know it or not. We're used (in many cases so subtly it's not of any great consequence or even really offensive) to help portray the image of an open and increasingly international society. Pretty much along the lines of, "Hey look! We have white people!"
So this white peep has had two brushes with China fame. Oh, don't get me wrong here, it's not anything like real fame and there's no way I'm counting it in my Andy Warhol 15 minutes I'm owed.
Brush number one happened when I happened to wander into a rather cool clothing store – you know, the ones where there's stuff to see but nothing to buy. And on the way out of my non-purchasing visit – as didn't want the hot pink crotch down to my ankles pants for some reason – I was stopped by a young guy.
I say 'stopped' but it was more of a timid gesturing to a camera a second guy had slung around his neck and was holding up to me as proof. Whether that was proof of his ability to take photos or that he had a neck, I wasn't sure. Either way, I would have much preferred proof of a cheque of a sizeable sum in his hand but whatever.
So as a result, I appeared in a street magazine – unfortunately not in the 'Super best people ever to grace the city' section but rather 'random people on the street. And on reading the text under the image I realised that after all this time I had my name and age all wrong. So hi everyone, my name's Jackie and I'm 26. And for added measure, the picture itself wasn't all that.
It was for a Taiwanese television commercial for some sort of children's product (obviously not entirely particular about contract details as that's all I can tell you about it. That and I think they own my internal organs and my first-born child). My role was one of the token white designers of said memorable products. I ended up being centred, flanked on either side by other foreigners.
It was the end sequence of the ad and all we needed to do was stand proudly with arms crossed and facing camera. Even I couldn't stuff that one up but I never did see the end product so I'll never really know for sure.
These were adventures of a particular type but not quite like the fake businessman gig. Again, it's about the perception of the connection a company has as white faces are generally seen as good for business. There have been stories of expats being asked to play parts of managers. They simply dress the part and propped up in front of a computer, spend the day watching films on its screen. They even receive their own business card as proof – and we all know how accurate these are in China.
However there are limits in how token foreigners are allowed to be seen. While it's all very well to have your showpiece ___________ (insert nationality here) for face value, uncle China always likes to maintain that the tokenism in the role stays token. The control freak corporation running the show have always had a bad time of the barbarians at the gate so they'd like to keep that distance to interact but not be part of mainstream culture. As always, our proper place is behind the gate.
Not so long ago an American guy achieved some success on a dating show but found that at the time of airing, his segment was censored out. You see, the problem was that he was just too successful and ended up charming his way to a date with one of the money focused, vain beauties on the show. But nobody told him that that was not the way you play the game. Well, not here anyway.
The proper result would have been to bow out – like a number of other white dudes before him. A kind of, 'thanks but you're just not good enough' type of deal. To the officials, that's entertainment.
Somehow I don't think I, or my alias Jackie, have anything to worry about in terms of being anything but token. Unless of course you're involved in some sort of children's product business in Taiwan, then I'm a big deal. I'll show you my business card.
27 September 2012
28 June 2012
Foreign devils
Every so often China does a bit of a foreigner spring clean. You know, tidy up the place a little, check under the rugs and those neglected corners and give it a good old once-over. Those it finds who are here illegally are placed on the next plane home. No life lines, no phone a friend, probably not even a good-bye for your trouble.
Apparently it's a coincidence that there had been two highly public westerners gone wild incidents that had grabbed the public's attention.
First there was the Russian musician placing his bare feet on a train seat besides a woman's head and swearing at her when she objected. Hopefully they weren't bare on the journey there as I've seen what ends up on the streets here and quite frankly anything less than platform shoes wrapped in industrial thickness garbage bags and soaked in alcohol solution is just not far enough to keep away from it.
Perhaps he was more of a polite slob and revealed his feet in the comfort of the train carriage. One may never know... actually one may, but one really doesn't care enough to do so. Anyway, he was probably rather proud of his feet and wanted to share this best feature with the world. I know what that's like as I feel that way about my left knee and insist I'm not at my best unless it's exposed. I mean, why wouldn't you want potentially stinking feet centimetres from your face? She overreacted and deserved to be scolded – in Chinese too mind you.
Like I always say, if you're going to insult someone make sure they understand you. Apparently witnesses commented on his rather vast vulgarity vocabulary although they were quick to add that his pronunciation was a bit off.
So Mr. Feet, the government has voted you off the island.
The other was a more serious matter, where a drunk British man (with apparent mental issues) attempted to sexually assault a local girl on a Beijing street. Locals stepped in and beat him up, leaving him bloody in the process. It was said that he had a history of lecherous behaviour on public transport. You know, the old attempt to flirt with any of the female gender only to have them think the drooling, goggle-eyed look more scary than sexy. That approach doesn't work for me either.
On a side note: as is no doubt the case, it's not so much an issue of a dastardly nationality but rather a gender at work here. Last week there was an article about police catching an ejaculator on the subway. Yeah, you read correctly; all over a poor woman's leg. The only thing western about his was the direction the train was heading.
Just like most moments in our constantly connected world, these incidents were filmed and posted online where they generated millions of views and comments. Of some of the most aggressive comments we have to attribute to a TV presenter.
Kind of funny but not in a ha-ha way as his usually pleasant mug can be seen on the official English language channel chatting it up with some of the lamest (when not irrelevant) questions to the who's who of unknown foreigners doing some sort of stuff in China. That's basically all it consists of: if you're a foreigner doing stuff he wants to sit across a table from you for a little chitchat action.
By the way, it's a great television channel if you're suffering from too much stimulation and need a good ol' dose of boredom. Too much of it though and you're sure to slip into a coma. Anyway, apparently he has a slightly different voice online – xenophobic psychopath might be the closest term. Kind of like what you're reading now.
He ranted about foreign trash stealing Chinese jobs and innocent girls; that is, when they're not spying for their home country. You know, it was like he was looking into my own heart when he wrote that. Just call me out by name next time.
Maybe it was a coincidence but a 100 day crackdown of foreigners living or working illegally in China began in Beijing and locals were encouraged to report on their foreign neighbours. It was like 1970 all over again. I of course dobbed on my American neighbours upstairs due to all the anti-foreigner excitement. That will teach you for murdering songs while you stamp around like epileptic monkeys.
A couple of weeks later it was Shanghai's turn, where a popular foreigner frequented bar street saw the immigration police enter into the most popular establishment and check everyone's papers. Emails were passed around the office to ensure we all had our documents in order and have a copy with us at all times to avoid a trip to the local station.
Actually, it was really only a moment of hysteria as perhaps not wanting to appear too draconian, the rhetoric died down as quickly as it arrived. Now we're back with the odd random image of foreigners in the local paper just standing around and, well... looking foreign. Add any general caption like 'today is forecast to be a scorcher' with a photo of a a white guy in shorts and presto: an international city that welcomes all. With the right papers that is.
Apparently it's a coincidence that there had been two highly public westerners gone wild incidents that had grabbed the public's attention.
First there was the Russian musician placing his bare feet on a train seat besides a woman's head and swearing at her when she objected. Hopefully they weren't bare on the journey there as I've seen what ends up on the streets here and quite frankly anything less than platform shoes wrapped in industrial thickness garbage bags and soaked in alcohol solution is just not far enough to keep away from it.
Perhaps he was more of a polite slob and revealed his feet in the comfort of the train carriage. One may never know... actually one may, but one really doesn't care enough to do so. Anyway, he was probably rather proud of his feet and wanted to share this best feature with the world. I know what that's like as I feel that way about my left knee and insist I'm not at my best unless it's exposed. I mean, why wouldn't you want potentially stinking feet centimetres from your face? She overreacted and deserved to be scolded – in Chinese too mind you.
Like I always say, if you're going to insult someone make sure they understand you. Apparently witnesses commented on his rather vast vulgarity vocabulary although they were quick to add that his pronunciation was a bit off.
So Mr. Feet, the government has voted you off the island.
The other was a more serious matter, where a drunk British man (with apparent mental issues) attempted to sexually assault a local girl on a Beijing street. Locals stepped in and beat him up, leaving him bloody in the process. It was said that he had a history of lecherous behaviour on public transport. You know, the old attempt to flirt with any of the female gender only to have them think the drooling, goggle-eyed look more scary than sexy. That approach doesn't work for me either.
On a side note: as is no doubt the case, it's not so much an issue of a dastardly nationality but rather a gender at work here. Last week there was an article about police catching an ejaculator on the subway. Yeah, you read correctly; all over a poor woman's leg. The only thing western about his was the direction the train was heading.
Just like most moments in our constantly connected world, these incidents were filmed and posted online where they generated millions of views and comments. Of some of the most aggressive comments we have to attribute to a TV presenter.
Kind of funny but not in a ha-ha way as his usually pleasant mug can be seen on the official English language channel chatting it up with some of the lamest (when not irrelevant) questions to the who's who of unknown foreigners doing some sort of stuff in China. That's basically all it consists of: if you're a foreigner doing stuff he wants to sit across a table from you for a little chitchat action.
By the way, it's a great television channel if you're suffering from too much stimulation and need a good ol' dose of boredom. Too much of it though and you're sure to slip into a coma. Anyway, apparently he has a slightly different voice online – xenophobic psychopath might be the closest term. Kind of like what you're reading now.
He ranted about foreign trash stealing Chinese jobs and innocent girls; that is, when they're not spying for their home country. You know, it was like he was looking into my own heart when he wrote that. Just call me out by name next time.
Maybe it was a coincidence but a 100 day crackdown of foreigners living or working illegally in China began in Beijing and locals were encouraged to report on their foreign neighbours. It was like 1970 all over again. I of course dobbed on my American neighbours upstairs due to all the anti-foreigner excitement. That will teach you for murdering songs while you stamp around like epileptic monkeys.
A couple of weeks later it was Shanghai's turn, where a popular foreigner frequented bar street saw the immigration police enter into the most popular establishment and check everyone's papers. Emails were passed around the office to ensure we all had our documents in order and have a copy with us at all times to avoid a trip to the local station.
Actually, it was really only a moment of hysteria as perhaps not wanting to appear too draconian, the rhetoric died down as quickly as it arrived. Now we're back with the odd random image of foreigners in the local paper just standing around and, well... looking foreign. Add any general caption like 'today is forecast to be a scorcher' with a photo of a a white guy in shorts and presto: an international city that welcomes all. With the right papers that is.
4 April 2012
Developing a taste for the poisonous
We thought it all started with the melamine milk scare in '08. Ahh, '08: the Olympics were upon us, foreigners were subject to random inspections in order to prove their visa legitimacy, and China's athletes were the best so you definitely could chuck out the rest. Glory days. Perhaps not if you were an infant. So when the beans... er, milk was was spilled, the world became acquainted with Chinese food safety regulations.
Those of us in this sometimes Twilight Zone alternate reality bubble we call Shanghai had enough suspicion to not look too entirely shocked by the revelation.
You see, this wasn't the start of a string of events, but more like just another of a long line of befores and afters. The life of Chinaland runs in a dual parallel – the one you see on the news and the other, more interesting one, that bubbles under the surface. Sometimes that hidden subterranean one pokes its head up and it's either beautiful or ugly, depending on the why, who, when and where of it all.
We kind of had our doubts that the regulations weren't as A for Awesome as they (now say that in a hushed tone as you sneak a look both left and right) would have liked us to believe. The fake eggs with no nutritional value kinda, sorta gave it away. Nice with a bit of fake bread and tea in the morning but that's besides the point.
A good number of us who might have frequented the odd Shanghainese bar have experienced the lax regulations through the consumption of fake alcohol. At one time or another our vodka or whiskey had more in common with lighter fluid than anything the labels suggested. A drink or two later and you feel like you've drained the contents of a bottle of turpentine and tomorrow's brunch is a no go.
Now you pretty much can't peruse a copy of that journalistic bible Shanghai Daily without coming across a new scandal involving someone substituting food with poison. I mean, it's an easy mistake to make, one I've often done myself. Every time I'm short on flour when making scones I tend to throw in a handful of fertiliser as a substitute.
One day tainted milk was all the rage and then the next it was replaced by diseased pig bacon; pork sold as beef after soaked in a detergent additive to alter its white colouring to something mooier; arsenic-laced soy sauce, of which I'm still unsure if it's gluten free or not; colouring added to old steam buns to make them look new, like a tired house with a fresh lick of paint I suppose; The classic glow in the dark pork – perfect for dining in the dark; and everyone's favourite, good old gutter oil (where substandard cooking oil illegally collected from gutters or sewerage drains is then sold to restaurants) which is probably not a lesson in recycling we all should emulate.
These all took their turns at becoming the new black of food scandal fashion.
Blame it on the rising cost of living and the need to cut corners in order to make money, perhaps even be a matter of survival for the perpetrator and the victim alike. It's no surprise then of the fondness of octagons here – as it's really just a square without corners.
But really, it all just reeks of supervillainy plotting at its finest. Tainting the city's food supply? Holy poisoned macaroni Batman.
Don't know about you but I suppose an alarm bell should have rang somewhere when a guy named Doctor Evil was brought on board at the Department of Quality Control. Sure, there might have been a bit of a cyanide issue at his last place of employment but his references were a-okay. And besides, he's a funny guy.
It's a filter down kind of deal where the ones who yet again pay the dearest price are the poorer members of society; the ones who have less to spend and less choice. The lives of the masses are still cheap here but that becomes a more difficult game to play as the mass become just that little bit more middle-class. However, now it's getting to the point that you feel no one is really safe – perhaps just different degrees of unsafe.
Now we pack our shopping in a trolley of paranoia as with any supplier potentially at fault, you're not really clear. Japanese or European typefaces on products might help. Might. The increasing concern of the ex-pat bubble world is to locate that holy grail of a safe food source. There are claims boasting of organic this and that, and in actuality nobody really knows. The bloke down the street thinks he knows someone who knows, but he's lying. Truth be told, if there's a buck to be made even formaldehyde would be considered organic here.
My meagre intake of street food has become meagre-er, as well as my local shopping experience. Although I still might pop in for the odd intense stare from a pyjama-clad shopper as I can't deny myself all of life's little pleasures. Of course by buying more expensive products I might just be paying more for the privilege of eating death food. Well, we are all equal after all under our big red flag but I'm lucky enough to have a choice and shop online.
It's become a bit of a challenge: you know, of the 'what doesn't kill me makes me stronger, or glow in the dark' variety. Or perhaps more like a game of pork roulette – where I must see if I can select the non-cancerous porky part when faced with the choices at the supermarket. Yeah, the type of local market where you can poke and prod the piggy pieces, pick it up and while waving it around, discuss its overall potential with the butcher. Oh, and all while cradling a smouldering cigarette in the corner of your mouth.
This would seem rather unappetising but unfortunately, when stacked against some of the other alternatives this might be a tastier option.
Those of us in this sometimes Twilight Zone alternate reality bubble we call Shanghai had enough suspicion to not look too entirely shocked by the revelation.
You see, this wasn't the start of a string of events, but more like just another of a long line of befores and afters. The life of Chinaland runs in a dual parallel – the one you see on the news and the other, more interesting one, that bubbles under the surface. Sometimes that hidden subterranean one pokes its head up and it's either beautiful or ugly, depending on the why, who, when and where of it all.
We kind of had our doubts that the regulations weren't as A for Awesome as they (now say that in a hushed tone as you sneak a look both left and right) would have liked us to believe. The fake eggs with no nutritional value kinda, sorta gave it away. Nice with a bit of fake bread and tea in the morning but that's besides the point.
A good number of us who might have frequented the odd Shanghainese bar have experienced the lax regulations through the consumption of fake alcohol. At one time or another our vodka or whiskey had more in common with lighter fluid than anything the labels suggested. A drink or two later and you feel like you've drained the contents of a bottle of turpentine and tomorrow's brunch is a no go.
Now you pretty much can't peruse a copy of that journalistic bible Shanghai Daily without coming across a new scandal involving someone substituting food with poison. I mean, it's an easy mistake to make, one I've often done myself. Every time I'm short on flour when making scones I tend to throw in a handful of fertiliser as a substitute.
One day tainted milk was all the rage and then the next it was replaced by diseased pig bacon; pork sold as beef after soaked in a detergent additive to alter its white colouring to something mooier; arsenic-laced soy sauce, of which I'm still unsure if it's gluten free or not; colouring added to old steam buns to make them look new, like a tired house with a fresh lick of paint I suppose; The classic glow in the dark pork – perfect for dining in the dark; and everyone's favourite, good old gutter oil (where substandard cooking oil illegally collected from gutters or sewerage drains is then sold to restaurants) which is probably not a lesson in recycling we all should emulate.
These all took their turns at becoming the new black of food scandal fashion.
Blame it on the rising cost of living and the need to cut corners in order to make money, perhaps even be a matter of survival for the perpetrator and the victim alike. It's no surprise then of the fondness of octagons here – as it's really just a square without corners.
But really, it all just reeks of supervillainy plotting at its finest. Tainting the city's food supply? Holy poisoned macaroni Batman.
Don't know about you but I suppose an alarm bell should have rang somewhere when a guy named Doctor Evil was brought on board at the Department of Quality Control. Sure, there might have been a bit of a cyanide issue at his last place of employment but his references were a-okay. And besides, he's a funny guy.
It's a filter down kind of deal where the ones who yet again pay the dearest price are the poorer members of society; the ones who have less to spend and less choice. The lives of the masses are still cheap here but that becomes a more difficult game to play as the mass become just that little bit more middle-class. However, now it's getting to the point that you feel no one is really safe – perhaps just different degrees of unsafe.
Now we pack our shopping in a trolley of paranoia as with any supplier potentially at fault, you're not really clear. Japanese or European typefaces on products might help. Might. The increasing concern of the ex-pat bubble world is to locate that holy grail of a safe food source. There are claims boasting of organic this and that, and in actuality nobody really knows. The bloke down the street thinks he knows someone who knows, but he's lying. Truth be told, if there's a buck to be made even formaldehyde would be considered organic here.
My meagre intake of street food has become meagre-er, as well as my local shopping experience. Although I still might pop in for the odd intense stare from a pyjama-clad shopper as I can't deny myself all of life's little pleasures. Of course by buying more expensive products I might just be paying more for the privilege of eating death food. Well, we are all equal after all under our big red flag but I'm lucky enough to have a choice and shop online.
It's become a bit of a challenge: you know, of the 'what doesn't kill me makes me stronger, or glow in the dark' variety. Or perhaps more like a game of pork roulette – where I must see if I can select the non-cancerous porky part when faced with the choices at the supermarket. Yeah, the type of local market where you can poke and prod the piggy pieces, pick it up and while waving it around, discuss its overall potential with the butcher. Oh, and all while cradling a smouldering cigarette in the corner of your mouth.
This would seem rather unappetising but unfortunately, when stacked against some of the other alternatives this might be a tastier option.
5 February 2012
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.
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.
11 October 2011
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.
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.
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.
Subscribe to:
Posts (Atom)
