Nostalgia...Revisited

‘Men grow old, the end draws near, each moment becomes more and more valuable, and there is not time to waste over recollections. It is important to understand the mathematical paradox in nostalgia: that it is most powerful in early youth, when the volume of the life gone by is quite small.

’~ Milan Kundera ~ ‘Ignorance'

There is much associated with the term 'goodbye'; its significance holds a different weight depending on the emotional associations of the speaker or listener. The stages of existence can be broken down into a series of 'hellos' and 'goodbyes', forming, from millions of different moments, the colourful tapestry of life. This is not always, or even often, the  vocal act of 'hello' and 'goodbye' but instead is a certain feeling: watching the sun rise over the Great Wall of China for the first and last time; winning a race; selling your first car; moving countries; helping your grown up child move out of the family home. In the recent lead up to my departure from China, a good friend asked me,  'do you feel nostalgic yet?' I answered honestly, 'no, and I am working so that I never do'. 

The term nostalgia comes from the Greek word nostos meaning ‘return’ and algos meaning ‘suffering’: Nostalgia is therefore the suffering caused by the longing to return. This is perhaps the biggest lesson that my three years as a nomad has taught me - there will always be people, places, experiences to leave behind, say goodbye to and consequentially, miss. However, if you are aware that moments are fleeting and that the human penchant towards nostalgia may soon set in, it encourages you to appreciate each moment all the more. I feel incredibly fortunate to have had moments and met extraordinary people who have threaded vivid flashes of colour through my unique pattern: the tapestry continues.   

This is my final China blog, written from a farmhouse kitchen in the middle of the English countryside. To my right is a group of middle aged women engrossed in their painting club, behind them the mid-morning sun spreads a certain kind of light, unique to an English summer, across a field of golden corn (actually, it's just sun bleached, under-watered grass but this sounds only half as romantic). This is my chance to remember, not for the last time, all of the amazing moments of my year in China. Here, regardless of if anyone reads them, they will be immortalized; the internet forming a comprehensive record of existence in the 21st century. I will be brief.

This past year I have: rolled down sand dunes in the Gobi desert; Slept in a two hundred year old monastery in the mountains; Slept in a yurt on the grasslands of Inner Mongolia;

 Got lost in the jungle; Made a fool of myself on Chinese television; kayaked down the Li river, flanked on both sides by the famous pointy hills of Guilin; 

listened to the rain fall on the roof of an ancient pagoda; seen Chinese Jesus...TWICE; Watched the Chinese version of Romeo and Juliet performed actually on the Westlake of Hangzhou; seen the sun rise over the Great Wall of China; Huffed and puffed and 'Hiked' up that same incredible example of Human endurance and fortitude; 

Seen a child pee on a washing machine; Nearly been arrested; Rode a motorbike around around the coast; discovered a hidden beach in El Nido;

Canoed into the underground river (one of the natural wonders of the world); Seen a blue star fish; Eaten a scorpion; Walked through the forbidden City; Experienced being virtually disabled in Shanghai; been wined and dined by The Waldorf Astoria; entered 2012 overlooking the lights of Pu Dong; 

Said hello and goodbye to a talking mouse about 10,000 times; Been published, quite a few times; Got drunk on fake alcohol, and again, and again; Met some of the most amazing people; Learned how to make my lazy arse run; had about 200 massage experiences, half of them being pretty dodgy; experienced the true wonder of Chinese hospitals (injections in the middle of a room filled with people, cigarette smoke, dogs, dirt); Read at a Chinese-style Jewish Sedar; had the most unconventional Christmas; laughed and loved...a lot!

It has been a fantastic year. Now it is time for the next chapter, which I have a sneaky feeling will be equally so. A different kind of wonderful. Serious work mode.

Urm...

We'll see. 

Kayaking Down the Li River

On a sunny Shanghai Sunday, life took a deviation from the monotony of insanity and entered the realm of fabulousity. The D.E. chapter of my life was finally finished, left alone for a period to be later evaluated and used for material for future creative endevours. Over to Nina to sum up the tone of that particular breed of goodbye:

http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=OfJRX-8SXOs

We joined the butterflies in the sky and stamped sooty footprints across The Orient to Yangshuo in China's southern Guangxi province. Cue blue skies, visible stars and air that doesn't sizzle the cilia.

A brief history lesson: The karst landscape which makes up a large part of the Guilin region is one of the most unique and beautiful vistas that this wonderful world has to offer. The subject of many classical Chinese paintings, the 100-kilometer stretch of the Li river is flanked on both sides by thousands and thousands of pointy hills of varying shape and size. So revered is this image that it has reached the Chinese financial wall of fame. It is proudly displayed on 20 yuan notes, further emphasizing that which makes China truly fascinating: the constant contrasts - nature meets consumerism, industrialism and a drive towards moderate prosperity.

  

During our four day jaunt in 'the nature', Hope and I did a considerable amount of r-shaped verbs: relaxing, reading, writing, recuperating, reclining, resting. If I was American I may say that it was 'rad' but as I am one of severe sophistication, I will say that it was all pretty great, really.




The highlight of the trip, ironically, is the part that I was initially most reluctant to. On the morning of our kayaking adventure, there was a massive storm and I was unable to run. Days, these days, seem split into the days when I run and the days when I sleep in. It seems strange to one such as me, physically lazy in the several past me's, to say that the days when I wake up early to run are far more palatable than those that I don't. Lazy me reared it's head this day and brought with it a colourful array of irrational fears regarding capsizing and a swimming related amnesia; a freak wave the size of China; white water rapids, unexpected, we're probably going to die.

Hope is, luckily, far braver than me and after a certain amount of serious agitation over some toast and tea, we were off rumpachumping into the hills to start our down stream meander. And meander it was: no waves, no rapids, no need to remember how to swim, just a beautiful smooth river running on and on between the hills. So quiet, it was, that even several feet from one another in our respective kayaks, we could whisper and still be heard.

The sound of silence

The river took us around many bends, displaying the irregular heart beat of nature, the limestone hills forming a kind of electrocardiograph which continued for miles and miles. We stopped halfway, pulling our kayaks up onto a tiny harbour where we sat in a bamboo cafe which was floating next to the shore. A little way up the slope stood the ruins of an ancient temple, completing a perfect example of why China remains one of the most mystical and fascinating of places.


In total, the trip took just under three hours. Once we reached our final destination, a tiny village in which we with our white skin were almost famous, I was completely soaked. Kayaking, as it turns out, requires a special kind of grace which I just don't have. Luckily, or so it would seem thus far, the Li River is not as potentially mutating as Huangpu (Yellow River) in Shanghai and it was therefore relatively ok to shower myself in it with every stroke of the paddle.

Some alarming instances

Everyone knows that I love this crazy Middle Kingdom, known by all but understood by few. However, sometimes things happen that just, well, shouldn't. As someone on the path to being a real live journalist and recorder of truths, I feel I must document a few of my favourite most eyebrow raising occurrences.
Before I commence on the road to self righteous 'In England we would never, I mean just NEVER do that', I would like to share my thought on truth. This is it: There is no such thing as complete truth (in the context of human comprehension). Something happens and the true facts (it's truth) gets lost immediately to the Universe. What exists then is a myriad of different truths, which come in the form of the perspectives of those who witnessed the event. Each will be somewhat different, every time, yet each will be the truth (unless you add a big old raging liar to the mix).

These are my truths and as such are alarming for my own individual reasons...

1. 'Give blood, not Hepatitis': Oh the blood bus has come to town. With it's centimeter thick grime coating the windows, plastic cups to store the blood and refrigerator on the blink, who can possibly refuse to impart their life blood upon the world? If these clearly visible implements aren't enough to tempt you into the bus' dimly lit , grimy innards, perhaps a trip to China's AIDs town will.

2. Buying cigarettes from a baby: This has been the point of much contention for me of late. One of my favourite dive bars, an underground bomb shelter aptly named 'The Shelter', has a cigarette man outside until the wee hours of the morning. This is not alarming. What is rather irksome and the cause of many arguments in broken Chinese is the baby who accompanies the man, still awake at 3am and shoved into drunken Laowai's faces: 'Ta hen ke ai...he is cute, buy more smokes.'

3. Poor lift logic: ATTENTION!!! If the lift is already full, how do you think you are going to fit in it? Take the extra two seconds to let the people out of the lift before you try and get into the lift!! Also, please refrain from smoking that disgusting cigarette in this impossibly enclosed space. It. Is. Gross. (These situations happen way more than they should do).

4. Patience and chivalry: I recently went on a few dates with a guy who, when he waited with me to get a taxi., I actually told, 'chivalry is dead'. What the hell ignoramus arse is wrong with me? If it's dead, can we please reserect it soon, please! I'm not asking for you to pay for everything, fellas. I don't even need you to rub my rather unsavory feet but please, if you can't wait an extra second to hold the door for me, at least don't slam it ON me. When on the metro, step aside valiant sir and allow the ladies to depart from the train BEFORE you barge, I am not made of air. And old man in the supermarket, it is not acceptable to mow your trolley into me and then shout at me for being so cumbersome with my really rather modest space occupation. But most of all, oh yes you evil man of yesterday, I will not forget you in a hurry, nay! If you don't quite feel like assisting me with my five massively heavy bags in this 40 degree July heat, fair enough. But DON'T TAKE MY FUCKING TAXI YOU ARSE!!

That is all.

Totally unrelated but pretty damn hilarious

How to (not) Get Arrested in China 101

It was gone 4am and I was sitting with my friend, half naked Nelly (an aspiring lawyer so his identity must remain anom.) enjoying the multi-falvourations of the local street food. We had ordered bbq skewers from one stall and some mi fan from another. We were not drunk. We got up to leave, paid for the rice and went on our jolly way.


We managed to get as far as the top of our street before a whole army of Chinese street food vendors accosted us from all angles; luckily we were not drunk. Had we been drunk, a whole different kind of scene would have unfurled. As we were not drunk, we quickly realized our mistake (we had accidentally forgotten to pay for the kebabs and owed the rather butch and incredibly strong Chinese woman 5 Yuan), paid up and went home to a none-alcohol marred sleep.


Had we been drunk, this is what may have happened...



H.N.N: We paid!


Chinese street vendor gang: %%)#@&!()!{#_%(%_^(_%$^(_$%(^%_^@!! All in disgusted unison.


Me: WE PAID!!!


The police turn up within minutes. There is a side note worth making on this particular theme and this is it: Where the bloody arse hell are the po po when you're getting raped or murdered? Accidentally forget to pay for some street food or do a wee in an alley after one too many cups of tea of an eve and you can bet your bottom that they'll be there, fingers a waggin'. Anyway, H.N.N and myself are now cornered by several police men and the street food vendor army and beginning to think, 'shit, maybe, just maybe, we really did forget to pay.'


ME: Ok, ok it's ok, we'll give you the money just get off of us. Do you realise who we are? (we are, in actual fact, no really much of anybody at all, really).


At this point a big strong butch Chinese woman has both my arms in a death grip while one of the police officers is doing his best impression of a 14 year old girl with a crush, batting away with a pathetic display of muscle power at H.N.N's chest.



H.N.N: He tore my god damn shirt the bastard.


There is no way that we are going to get away, this female Chinese vice is enough to take us both down, even if the police are somewhat lacking. They start to shove us into the car as we dramatically scream "nooooooooooo", practicing for the end of the world when we will all eventually get sucked into the sun or some shit.



Luckily H.N.N has a brain wave: his gay lover lives in the apartment building which just happens to be next to where this scene is unfurling. H.N.N does a kind of under arm roll, manages to get his phone out of his pocket and begs Special K to come down and save us.



Down Special-K strides, pays the street vendors off, bribes the police with a smile and we're once again rumpachumping down the street.



H.N.N: They tore my shirt, the bastards!

One Chinese Evening in China

“You stick to your side, I’ll stick to mine! A strange denial of the common pulse of humanity.”

Lady Chatterly’s Lover

I love China. There you go, I’ve said it. I’ve been here for one year, am no longer ‘fresh off the boat’. I’ve worked with Chinese people of all ages; I’ve written about Chinese culture and had first-hand experience of media control and social rhetoric. I’ve been spit on, crashed into and almost certainly decreased my life span by a good few years. Yet, I love China; not in spite of but because of these strange, very cultural, very different experiences. 

In Shanghai there are many glittering, glowing towers where one can hide from the Chinese-ness of China. However, in my last couple of months living in the pearl of the Orient, I choose China..the real China. For it is China that has opened my eyes and changed my perspective. Shanghai that has given me the opportunity for professional and emotional growth; I will return home with China on my mind.

And so we rumpachuump on a China-finding mission, discovering the real Shanghai, un-marred by the sheen of opulence...

Dinner is a mix of different vegetables selected from a stand, which has been erected at the side of the road; we avoid the massive aubergine and fish heads. There is a long, narrow grill holding a selection of unidentifiable meats which are brushed not-so-sporadically (far too often for my taste) by a combination of oil and spices. We are surrounded by street vendors, each cooking up their own variation of classic Chinese ‘street food’ dishes: Vegetables, meat, rice, noodles and oil, each with its own composition. There is a jumble of plastic chairs and tables and although the time is 9.30pm, the side of the road is heaving with people. There is no pavement, so really the side of the road is the road, and precarious tut-tuts occasionally weave through the crowd. We share our dinner, embracing the Chinese ‘family-style’ dining experience. The evening is warm, the mosquitoes vicious.

After dinner we head to the massage, urm…I want to say parlor but it’s really more of a succession of living rooms adjoined to a busy kitchen, which seemingly houses a large Chinese family. On route, we try to find a toilet and stumble into the local health care centre. Enter the third floor and a whole lot of awkward shuffling, accented by desperate attempts not to stare in at the small, somewhat grimy rooms housing patients of all ages. Many are hooked up to ancient-looking equipment and catheters, lying under duvets sporting an array of designs and variations of Mickey Mouse’s face (really?! Is there no escape!??)

Laura: Urm, maybe we shouldn’t have come here.

We find a office, suspiciously clean and swanky pants and creating an even more drastic contrast to the outer surroundings. Quick ad-lib, hand gesture (how do you say 'I need to pee' without looking like a demented water-melon?) and we're back shuffling awkwardly up the corridor, escorts in tow. 

The toilet is a massive trough and my first experience of such an urination station. I look over the door (it reaches my shoulders), wave at Laura and casually inquire as to the logistics of such a design. She suggests I go shoulder to wall and door and kind of straddle the trough, while at the same time holding the top of the pretend door with one hand and my trousers with the other. Our guides, there is now four, stare at us from the doorway. In the stall next door, there is an antique wooden chair which is perched over the trough. It immediately reminds me of Karl Pilkington’s make-shift loo in the Amazon jungle. Useful. We chat a bit with the women, who clearly have no idea why these two gargantuous foreigners are using their bathroom. So it goes.

http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=HCd2CuTIlpE

The beds in the massage (???) are comfortable enough but there are three of them, shoved into a tiny alcove which adjoins the main living-type room which is used for foot massages. I’m in the middle; it’s my turn to be the attraction. Laura is to my right and random Chinese man, we’ll call him Bob, is to my left. Bob and I become more and more intimate as the massage progresses. Due to the lack of room in the alcove, each bed is turned constantly, as the three masseuses maneuver themselves around. At one point Bob and I are practically holding hands. The whole time, the three masseuses, and Bob (who turns out to be a very in-gracious boyfriend), laugh at Laura and I. Even if I didn’t understand a fair amount of what they were saying, which I do, it would still have been pretty obvious that their incessant laughter is aimed at us. I am particularly tickled by a quivering, jelly sort of feeling as my behind is thoroughly ruffled…and laughed at…for a considerably large length of time. So it goes. 

China is amazing and everyday is an adventure. Anyone who says otherwise is probably looking the wrong way...possibly up their own anus. More to come...

Things We Do When We THINK Nobody is Watching Us

I have recently had a revelation of self. I am incredibly awkward, extraordinarily so and yet this affliction of the membrane appears to manifest itself in the strangest of ways. I find normal things too awkward, like saying hello to someone you know rather than pretending to be a tree (this makes dating in a City like Shanghai an interesting experience). Yet posing questions such as: 'So, what do you think is the most selfish shellfish?' to relative strangers, is no issue for me. This past week I have observed the habits of others in the fashion of a slightly pervy sleuth and am delighted to find that I am not alone in my ridiculous ways! Here follows the top three most random, awkward moments…when strangers think that no one is watching them:

3^rd prize - The Ear Cleaner: Cleaning your ears in public is pretty much a no no; this fellow was particularly resourceful in his methods. No cotton buds to hand? No worries…get your car key in there, son!!

2^nd Prize – The Baby Bogey: We teach our kids ‘Be clean’ but we only see them two hours a week, it really is up to the parents to implement this rule, not encourage the opposite behaviour. Point and case: Grandfather and sprog on the metro – child get his digit dug into old man’s nose and then…eats it!! Old man sits docile, contemplating better days.

1^st Prize – When Two Become One: After sharing a plate of pasta, and feeding each other, a couple (Chinese girl, Western boy) settle back to enjoy the Blue Grass gig. After a couple of minutes of liberated independence, the girl leans over her boyfriend’s shoulders and starts picking the food out of his teeth. The couple continue in this fashion, enjoying the warbling melody of the Blue Grass Project. 

The Massage Chronicles Part One: Sri Lanka

For many, the idea of weekly massages seems an absurd luxury; the kind of opulence that footballer’s wives dripping in yellow gold and sovereigns mention to two-syllable magazines (Hello! Closer! Ok!) “Buuuuut, like, yaaa knaaaow, I’m really like just like an ordinary gurwl really.” In Asia, the land expanse of extremes, a weekly 60 minute massage can become as much a part of your weekly routine, and budget, as the occasionally necessary splurge on Doritos at the Western market; in fact, massages are often the cheaper option.

My first experience of the ‘real’ Asia provided extensive material for the first entry in the Massage Chronicles, a lifelong work to which I am more than dedicated. The date is August 2008, the setting a dusty corner of Kandy, Sri Lanka’s second largest city. Initially, an Ayurvedic massage experience seems like a great idea.

My mum and I are weathered massage veterans, not so much the kind dripping in diamonds, more the bitter, got the shit end of the DNA stick kind, leading to an un-kind kind of posture. To quickly add filler to this paint by numbers of the imagination, the beds have no covers but have recently been disinfected, which makes them rather slippery and provides many an ‘Oh shit’ moment as the rigorous massage almost sends one or the other of us slip sliding across the room. The walls of said room are caked in grime, the windows so dusty that only the most persistent of light beams can penetrate the room’s gloom.

Slip, slide, slip, slide, pound, ‘ouch’, slide, ‘shit’, slip, ‘please don’t massage my boobs’, slide and we are ushered away from each other (four year old separation anxiety revisited) and into a bath filled with dried roses and herbs. The bath tubs remind me of the one from my childhood, which is sweet, except this one is smaller and has a kind of off yellow tinge. In fact, it really looks nothing like the tub of yore, and is instead more of a reminder of being the third in the water after my two brothers had been thoroughly scrubbed. I sit in the bath tub, naked as my name day, and concentrate on not swallowing any of the water that the woman insists on pouring over my head, ‘relaxing, madam.’ Up and out, a quick rub down (I am not permitted to partake in this most private of human functions), several perplexed glances at my only ally (a rusted mirror hanging behind the woman’s head) and onto the wax treatment.

I don’t wish to bore you too much with the details of this. Simply imagine two beds, a kind of pendulum machine, a massive candle and some wax. Insert two victims and set the wax a drippin’. Those who know me know that I struggle to sit through a whole episode of my favourite TV show; my house mate calls it ADHD, I call it jumping beans of the spirit. After about ten minutes of having wax dripped over my forehead, along with the constant worry of ‘how bloody hot is this wax like to get?’ I sit up, thank the perplexed woman and trot over to the wooden coffin for the final in the Ayurvedic torture series. By this point I really have no idea where my mum is and my anxiety is rising.

Inside the wooden box, it is hot. I am lying on a kind of wooden grate heated from below by a genuine, state of the bloody art fire. It is hot. Everything but my noggin is entrapped in the wooden box and it is hot. I tell myself to relax, chastise myself for being such a tense, moody cow, think that my boyfriend may just have a point. It is hot. I last ten minutes, it feels like fifty. I shout for someone to come and open my coffin, only slightly concerned about my naked modesty as I am revealed, half cindered beneath the heavy lid. Upon later inspection, I have four perfect square third degree burns where my bum meat (be kind) has nestled nicely between the wooden slats, too close to the fire.

There are lessons in this experience, although, four years later, I have not learnt from them…China promises to provide many an interesting, potentially dangerous massage experience…

Snapshots of a Woman From the Girl

I write on average four articles a week on a myriad of different topics. I meet many interesting people who come from all angles of the globe and thus view it with their own unique perspective. Every day I am thankful for this opportunity and every minute I relish it. However, I rarely get to write for myself anymore and I miss it.

Last week I went to the Shanghai International literary Festival, again on matters of business, as I was writing an article on the event. The workshop was about getting pen to page and just writing; writing without fear of who will read, or what they will think or indeed whether it will make any sense once outside of your own head. Nancy Conyers opened the workshop with this quote: “The blessing of writing is the same thing that is the curse – the blank page. You can do whatever you want…The moment before creativity is so painful for some that they simply can’t deal with it.” The exciting thing with art is that we can all be the masters of our own universe. We can decide which stroke goes where, what colours are best to accent which ideas; and with writing, a picture with words, we decide how characters behave, how images are created and more often than not, how the story will end...

Things we said to pass the time:

“You have indecisive eyes”, I said. Sometimes green, other times hazelnut brown, they were intriguing, often misleading. I never saw them cry, even when the mountain toppled and the sea ran dry. You said “I hate you” to mask “I love you.” Do you remember the look on the shop assistant’s face that valentine’s day with the giant cookie that proclaimed your hate? I said you were funny, she said you were mad. You said “I love you” when you felt nothing. Hate is too strong, reserved for those who matter when they shouldn’t; rarely for those who don’t when they should.

We said it was us against the world. No one understood like we did and for that time I was every god in Zeus’ army. I said you had to ride the roller coaster and you did it just for me, even when you felt ill. You said it wasn’t my fault when you vomited all over yourself (and the unsuspecting person directly beneath you). You said “right now” every time you thought that I looked particularly beautiful; you shouted it across a petrol station one time when I knew that I didn’t.

You said I stress too much, how glad I am that those times have changed. I said the world is doomed, you said everything is cyclical and I understood too late to tell you so. The world will remain beautiful, even after everything that is known is gone and the sounds of the rivers and the birds and the seas claim back their former glory.

You said without dreams we are nothing but you were scared of yours. I said, “Why do you wander the streets at night?” You said that I didn’t understand. You spoke many truths that I denied because I was too stubborn to admit that I didn’t know and too young to discover why.

You said it was none of my business, if you chose to sleep all day what was it to me? I said that you were business. How silly, to believe anyone else could be your own business and to invest so much energy in the emotional hard sell. You said I was crazy, not to me, but bad news travels like electricity, if the right wires are connected, and hits harder than lightening. I can’t disagree, I have a writer’s mentality, as do you; you paint the world on an acorn, the details are minute.

You said “All the best”. I said "take care" and the path of our mutual life stopped there. Silence followed; the time passed anyway. 

Shanghai:

Flanked on both sides by binary code, the city of extremes preys on people like me. Every race, nationality, breed and face lives together; sometimes harmoniously, often looking without seeing, judging without really knowing. Understanding a world where everything is possible and yet for some, nothing.

Writer’s block:

She stands on a craggy mountain ridge of her own creation. She knows the slope well. The feel of the clay, the exact shade of red, the way the foot prints follow a different path than originally intended, all are there because she is there.

She spun this world with no end in sight, as she has done with every world before it. There is no map and darkness begins to draw in.

The people below walk the same road, up and down, up and down. It is not long but it has many slopes and blind turns; it is not a safe road, the ground is not steady, the trees are not kind. The road goes nowhere, blocked on both sides by a giant iron wall that knows no limits, refusing exit or entrance; it stands completely mute, waiting for her order. The longer she waits, the more lost to their purpose those people become. She sees some who were originally unknown to each other speaking on the road, realising things intended for oblivion.

She wonders if she will ever get back to those distant wanderers. She gave them life but cannot remove that which has already been created. She has no power to extract them from that dark, half-lost corner. She turns from the valley, now encompassed by the shadow of the mountain on which she stands. There they will remain; haunting the place where she dreams.

Climbing Soap:

“My thought is me: that is why I cannot stop thinking. I exist I think because I
cannot keep from thinking.”

~ Jean Paul Sartre ~

He sat looking out of the window at the rain. The small gold clock that ticked the sound track to his life belonged to his mother. He thought of belongings. He had several in his tiny flat: there was the war memorabilia, ten medals laid out proudly in a perfect line on his dresser, other items stashed carefully in a locked suitcase under his bed. There was also the sofa with the colourful patch work quilt that had been here when he arrived and the shot gun mounted to the wall over the television that didn’t work properly. There was the kettle, the cups: three of them, with blue stripes; eleven stripes on two but thirteen on the third. There was a chip in the third cup, it was his least favourite and he refused to use it. There were spoons, five of them arranged in a neat row on the kitchen counter, their handles tilted left at 30 degree angles. Three of them were the only things remaining from a wedding set, he couldn’t recall which, or where the rest of it had gone to. The other two were likely picked up along the route of his life; he only ever used the second to the left. Used it, washed and dried it and put it back where it belonged. He had a fridge; inside the fridge were some milk and two meals on wheels meals brought in by his carer that morning.

He had a carer; he almost thought of her as his possession, like a pet but with slightly more independence. She came every day at the same time, purred around his foot a while, asked him, ‘are you alright’ or ‘ok’ or ‘how you doing love?’ Her name was Annie, it suited her jovial disposition. She knew his routine now and so she was fine, a minor annoyance sometimes with her questions and smiles on rainy Sundays, but usually she entertained him somewhat and he was glad of the company. It was when she was off sick or on holiday or doing something else that there was a problem. It was a big problem and an impending one, the cause of much anxiety and frustration over a series of consecutive weeks. He had calculated it: it was exactly 30 days since she’d told him that she would be in France for two weeks and that he would have someone else encroaching on his space,

 ‘She’s really lovely, honest. I’m sure you’ll get on great!’

The hour of her last dinner time visit was fast approaching and then in front of that lay 336 hours, maybe more if she was late back from the airport. He had calculated around 20160 ticks of his mother’s golden clock.

He went back to counting the rain drops that were falling over the streets of Brixton.

My AGGHHHHHH CHIIIIIINAAAA Moment

Jean Paul Sartre once stated, ‘for an occurrence to become an adventure, it is necessary and sufficient for one to recount it.’ I have said before that every day in China is an adventure and even bad experiences often make for great stories. Yet life in a Chinese yard sale can sometimes be infuriating, confusing and downright difficult. The Chinese have a delightful way of doing some things unbelievably efficiently and others the most seemingly illogical way possible. During these moments it is necessary to take a deep breath and scream CHINA!!!!! as loud as you can (inside or out of your head). It also helps to have a ready brigade of like-minded wine quaffers to laugh at the ‘AAAAHHHH CHINA!!’ moments with.

 


I have been incredibly fortunate since I moved away from England. I have met some wonderful people; people who have not only enhanced my life with their humour and interesting stories but with whom I have found genuine connections. I am told that connections are rare, yet for me they seem to happen at exactly the right time and I couldn’t be more grateful. While there is a long list of people both in China and The Czech Republic who have permanently inked their name on my life, I feel that my three China bum chums – Sharin, Alex and Dominic - deserve a special mention in the greater context of this story. Not only do we work together, seeing each other all day every day, illuminated by the harsh lights of Disney English and usually irked about one thing or another, we also spend most of our free time together. I can honestly say that I absolutely, whole heartedly (and verging on being slightly pansy-esq) adore these three wacky human beings. Anyway, enough of the (completely unnecessary) ego boosts.

Pretty much sums up our Shanghai lives

The point is that this year we spent a wonderful, unconventional Chinese Christmas together, complete with turkey carved using a butter knife and chopsticks and eaten from paper cups, a Japanese BBQ and one hell heap of Saki.

Turkey Dinner provided by Disney

For New year’s, along with our friends Austin and Jo Jo, we decided to swanky pants it up at a seventh floor bar on the Bund – a row of expensive bars and restaurants inside old, European-style buildings that line the Huangpu River. Dressed up to the point of distraction, we saw in 2012 on the roof terrace of New Heights, drinking champagne and looking out over Shanghai’s most breath-taking views.

View of Pu Dong from New Heights at Three on the Bund

The street below was absolutely rammed with people, characterizing all that is China on this traditionally un-celebrated event. The theme of the party was fire and ice and was accented by ice sculptures, a laser dancer and fire cocktails. It was possibly the most lar de dar event I have ever been to and was a fantastic way to see in the new year. I feel I have to preface the real point of this tale with the positive energy of this past festive period. What follows is my all-time top of the ring number one AAAAAAAHHHHHH CHINAAAAAA! moment….

We left the bar, slightly worse for wear and breaking all of my new year’s resolutions before the sun had even risen on 2012. Attempting to get a taxi was unsurprisingly difficult, as it is in every major City on New Year’s Eve. When we did finally get one, he took us to completely the wrong place. To be fair to him, our intentions were not exactly as clear as they could have been, considering the language barrier and the immensity of the City in which we live. ME: Do you know C’s? DRIVER: Blank stare, DOMINIC: You know, rapey bar. C’s. Shit, what’s the address? ME: Somewhere near, urm…somewhere. Zhong Shan Park, I think.

Equally as clueless

Standing on the side of the road in the middle of somewhere near something (not C’s bar) we were discussing our options when another driver, this time on a tut tut, approached us. We tried to communicate our intentions with more vigorous hand gestures and slightly louder voices. I can only imagine that this had the effect of waving candy in the face of a child: I was holding my purse…waving it, basically in his face, repeatedly…cue slap stick comedy moment as tut tut driver grabs my purse from my hand, hurdles onto his bike and stutters off down the street. Dominic took off after him, coat tails bellowing, arms flailing. It was almost, but not quite, worth the 500 yuan nestled unawares inside my kidnapped possession. Not the best way to begin the New Year, but a lesson none the less and a semi amusing story with it.

Two days later, I decided to brave the bank and get a new card ordered. At this point it is worth noting that in China, if you lose your bank card the bank will freeze your account for a week until your new card gets delivered. This means that you cannot access your money (even if you take your identification actually into the bank) for a week, regardless of rent payment or any other life related necessities. So I went to the nearest ICBC bank but they were rammed and unorganised. So I walked further up the road, found another and took my number – 1089, twelve people in front of me. Be patient.

When it was finally my turn, none of the people behind the counter spoke English. I called my assistant teacher and official SOS Chinese language champion and she explained my situation. CHINESE TRANSLATION: So you want to open a new bank account? ME: No. I want to keep the same account; I just need a new card. CT: Can I have a look at your existing card? ME: No, it was stolen. Which is why I need a new card (???????!!!!!!!!!!). CT: So you want to order a new card? ME: YES!! CT: Ok, please fill out these forms. All three of the forms were written in Chinese characters. ME: Urm!!?? Be patient. Finally someone who spoken English came over to help me fill out the forms and we began to make some progress; as we entered hour two of Chinese bank fiasco.

Another side point worth noting: before I arrived in China, my company set up my bank account for me. All they took into the bank was my passport number and personal details. I didn’t sign anything, in fact I didn’t even know they were doing it until they handed me my card and bank book at our first meeting. Therefore, when the bank woman asked me to fill out the address my account was opened under, I had no idea. I explained the situation to her and she said that I would need to provide this information before we could progress. ME:  So what you’re telling me is that some random person can open an account in my name but you won’t let me access this account, even though I have my passport and gave you my pin number, unless I provide some arbitrary address given six months ago before I had even moved here? Be patient. BANK WOMAN: I’m sorry, it’s bank policy. ME: But can you not see how ridiculous that is?

A conceptual image of the inside of my mind

I phoned the HR manager of my company and explained the situation, hoping that he could give me the address which was apparently so necessary. He wasn’t in the office and said he would e-mail it to be the following day. We were now approaching the 90 minute mark of my epic test of patience. The bank woman said that they would see if the address was really necessary but if it was then I could go to the branch that my card was set up at (an hour metro ride away) and that it wouldn’t be necessary to have the address there. Her colleague said that he would check straight away and tell me if I would need the address or not. He didn’t check, instead he served another eight people and kept me waiting for another half an hour. Be patient.

Finally, they said that as long as I had my company name it would be fine. I told them (by this point there were five bank people, mulling over my issue) and they proceeded to laugh at me in Chinese, but using the English for my company, over and over in an almost ludicrously obvious manner. BANK WOMAN: We need the Chinese translation. ME: It’s Disney English; there is no Chinese translation for Disney, it’s just Disney…internationally, Disney. BANK WOMAN: But we need it. Be patient. Ten minutes later…BANK WOMAN: We don’t need the Chinese translation, it’s okay.

AAAAAHHHHH!!

They then photocopied, scanned, photocopied, scanned, went through every page, scanned and photocopied my passport until man number four of the five-bank-clerk-brigade was holding seven photocopies of my passport and another seven of my visa. I think it’s worth interjecting that I am in no way over exaggerating this story. Not even a little bit. Another ten minutes of excessive stamping, examining, stamping and giggling and they finally handed me back my passport with a slip of paper which I will need to return with, in order to finally get my card.

Several lessons were learnt from this epic fiasco. 1. Don’t make alcohol related New Year’s resolutions while downing champagne…It destroys all validity. 2. Never wave your purse in a tut tut driver’s face while doing a particularly accurate ‘obnoxious foreigner’ impression. 3. In the face of absurd adversity…BE PATIENT! (and laugh like a loony toon on E!)