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"Red Heart Moon" a WEST MEETS EAST China Weblog -- by Kevin Hart
Cross-cultural musings about life straddling the Pacific.
last modified Jun 16, 2004 at 17:43
Haggling is an art and a way of life here, and while some people master it better than others, most Chinese are very adept. They have to be. If the original price was paid on everything, the cost of living would be more expensive than in any developed nation. You can bargain for many items, as small as raisins and as big as houses. In our family, my wife is the expert. She knows the going price of all food and household items, and can exact the lowest price from the shopkeeper every time she flashes her wallet. I am incompetent comparatively, and frankly would rather pay a few cents more for that bouquet of flowers or bag of walnuts than spending the extra minute or two to try to get them down further. Jennifer maintains that if you add up those few cents wasted on every transaction, the money that could have been saved by year’s end could buy an air ticket to anywhere in the country. Fair enough, but I would rather let the sellers have that plane ticket and save myself the time and aggravation.
Here is a typical conversation at the local street market. “How much for a half kilo of ginger?” “15 cents” “What? It was only 9 cents the last time I bought it”. “The price went up”. “That’s too expensive”. “I can give you a better deal if you buy more.” “How much cheaper can you go?” “If you buy 1 kilo, I let you have it for 13 cents.” “That is still too much. I want it for 10 cents, take it or leave it.” “Sorry, I can’t sell it to you for that price, I would be losing money.” “Then forget it, I will try elsewhere”. When the buyer walks away, that is often the time the seller caves in. “OK, OK, 10 cents, but only for you…” That is a lot of work for both parties, but a scenario that is re-enacted millions of times each day in China.
Where my usefulness comes in is on larger purchases. Because of my status as the local “China expert” foreigner, I can often get great deals on high-end items. The best example of this was our apartment in downtown Chongqing. Jennifer and I fell in love with the place because of its location, overlooking the Jialing River, and within a stone’s throw of her mother’s place. That, along with the light rail sky train being put in along the river, we were really motivated to “discuss a price, return a price” with the developers. The initial asking price was 3600 RMB per square metre. We asked if they could come down some. They said they were able to offer a special discount of 2% off if we decided to buy that day. Sensing even more flexibility than that, I started to sell them on me. First, I had to point out all the shortcomings, the small common area outside, lack of greenery, the distance to the bus stop, and the relatively small bedrooms.
They said they could come down some more but would need to speak to their manager. After returning with another 5% knocked off, I shook my head and said they could still do better. Playing my trump card I said, “In all honesty, it is a decent development project by Chongqing’s standards. Not what I am used to in the West of course, but in spite of its faults, would make a good local base for us. You know, there are not many westerners living full-time in Chongqing. I am sure that if I moved in, many locals would notice this and say, ‘Hey, there is a foreigner living there. It must be a good place.’ I could provide some free advertising for you, and your property values may even go up in part because of me.” We are looking for a final price of 3,000 per square metre. Please discuss this with your manager.”
Sure enough, the manager herself came over, we got to know each other, and we struck the deal. Later, we found out that this was their rock-bottom price, and the same deal the agents were allowed to offer their own families and friends. I had just saved ourselves over $10,000 Canadian and scored a beautiful new home. That was more than enough to buy several round trip tickets anywhere in China for everyone in Jennifer’s entire family (without having to give any prices back).
Choosing and purchasing a new home in China is the easy part. Once you take over the deed, you receive an empty, concrete shell, and must figure out the best way to make it into a comfortable dwelling. While “menu style” pre-furnished apartments are becoming more popular in the big cities, they are still few and far between, and in lesser developed urban centres like Chongqing, practically non-existent. So while we were very excited about our new pad, a 29th story apartment overlooking two rivers and the northern part of the city, we faced the daunting task of furbishing it from top to bottom.
Many people opt to buy all the material themselves, and have to negociate for everything a new houses requires: plumbing, water heaters, electrical wiring and outlets, natural gas, flooring, paint, plaster, tiles, doors, door knobs, light fixtures, light switches, and a myriad of other items such as furniture and appliances. While most of this work is done for you and new homes are usually ready to inhabit in western countries, people in China by necessity must become experts in home decorating.
There are home furbishing companies that do an appraisal, create a unique design, take care of the many details, buy the necessary material, and mobilize the manpower to make the house into a home. Some are reliable, reputable companies that care about doing a good job and satisfy their customers, but the majority are in it just to make a fast yuan. Especially in Chongqing where the decorating industry is very unregulated, it is easy to fall in with the wrong people who only care about maximizing their profits and squeezing the consumer as much as they are able.
The other option is to go for independent contractors who just come in, take orders, do the work, then go home when the project is done. It is much cheaper this way as you design the floor plan, buy all the material, and act as on-site foreman making sure they put the socket near the ground and not above the door. However, this is time intensive, and can be an exercise in frustration if things are not going according to plan.
The dilemma with “professional” furbishing companies is that their services may be little better than independent plumbers, electricians, and carpenters. In our case, we struck what we hoped would be a happy medium, hiring an established company, and trusting them to look after little things while we designed the layout and bought the expensive items.
Our misfortune was being assigned a crooked foreman who was always looking to cut corners and for ways to be lazy. I was away on work for most of the decorating period, but Jennifer was there day after day, staring over their shoulders, making sure they were using the material we had ordered, and that everything was being done to our specifications. She had negociated the overall deal and was darned determined to get our money’s worth. She can be one tough cookie, and will not be cheated by anyone, so as you can imagine, heated arguments, unleashing some of the most colourful Chongqing dialect I had ever heard, often broke out often about this, that, and the other. In Chinese, there is an expression that translates to “steal labour, reduce material”, and is endemic in the housing sector. The foreman was a perfect example of this, and we found out later that he had secretly replaced higher quality material we had bought with his own inferior products, taking home ours and resusing or reselling it.
Suffice it to say, we complained about him up and down to the company we hired, and they actually fired him near the end of the contract. That was all and well, but meant we had no recourse to recover our lost material (not to mention Jennifer’s frayed nerves), so the company ended up compensating us for some of the poor work that because of time constraints and wanting to move in sooner than later, we just said forget if for now.
All that being said, Jennifer had really done herself proud, learning the ins, outs, ups, and downs of home decoration, standing up to a bully of a work boss, demanding and receiving compensation for services not rendered, yet finally creating a very comfortable and attractive living space that receives many compliments from family and friends, and that we are very pleased with overall.
The university where I studied in Taiwan had a nickname among the locals, “Mahjong U.” because so many students played at all times of the day. However, my adopted home Chongqing would have good reason to earn the nickname “Mahjong City” because wherever you go and at all times of day and night, there is the constant clacking of the plastic tiles hitting each other when being “washed” (shuffled) after every hand. While playing for money is technically illegal, most locals will tell you that it is utterly boring with no incentive, and even retirees like my mother-in-law play on a regular basis, if only for a few cents a hand.
Chongqing majhong is one of the simplest forms going, and nearly anyone can pick it no time. Basically, it is a matter of lining up the tiles according to suit and number, and the one who does it the quickest wins the hand. Money is exchanged as the winner either takes from everyone if they go out on their own, or from an opponent who gives away the winning tile.
My wife Jennifer loves a good game now and again, and although I do not condone gambling in any form, trust that she won’t bet away all our savings or endanger her health by pulling all-nights with her “Mahjong Mates”. Her luck is usually uncanny, and when she does partake in “Building the Great Wall”, (another local term for the game), she often comes home with more coin than she left with. My poor mother-in-law however, always manages to part with a few RMB every time she plays. Does that perhaps reflect her skill level? She certainly would not agree, and might be offended if anyone even suggested it. (I am glad she cannot read English, otherwise I might get an earful!) Oh well, at least it is good for hand-eye coordination, and many say playing regularly wards off senility. In her case it must be working, because at 80 she is still very sharp mentally, and remembers exactly how much her friends have profited from her over the last calendar year!
On the other end of the scale there are the high-rollers who play “Big Mahjong” for major moolah, and who, on any given night, can pocket or squander thousands of RMB without batting an eye. Mahjong parlors are common in the city and sometimes come under the scrutiny of the local authorities who try to curb the proliferation of these “illegal gambing dens”. Still, many play for money right out in the open, in restaurants or even on the sidewalks, and do not worry too much about being discrete. I guess there are just so many tables seeing action all day, the police don’t overly concern themselves unless public disturbances occur, which does not happen often, fortunately.
Jennifer’s father passed away when she was nine, and her mom grew up in the countryside. Chongqing in general is a very conservative place with little exposure to foreigners, so it was perfectly understandable that she did not want to introduce me to the in-laws before our official engagement.
Early in our relationship I had already asked to meet them, but she insisted on waiting. News of this magnitude passes like wildfire in the “Quiet Garden” apartment complex where her mother lives. What a misnomer that is -- with 6 big residence towers, 800 families living in a very enclosed space, it is anything but quiet. What if I had met the family, the rumour mills engaged, and then it did not work out? It would be a big loss of face for all of them. So, wisely, Jennifer and I decided to make the introductions after we had set a date for our wedding.
We were certainly not counting on everyone greeting me with open arms, but were NOT expecting the bad luck that led to an especially standoffish reception. Jennifer’s younger sister Xiao Ping told us that the previous evening, they all had seen a front page article in the Chongqing evening newspaper. It was about a Canadian guy in Shanghai who had been arrested for poligamy! Apparently, he had 7 local wives before being discovered. When Jennifer’s mother, all 4’11” of her, answered the door, she cooly looked up at me, then her daughter, and queried, “Are you number eight?”.
It took some time to convince them that it was not me, and longer to gain their confidence, but the patience has certainly paid off. Now, after seven years, and in spite of my mini-celebrity status in town, I am just another member of the family, pale skin, pointy nose, and all.
After a brief but admittedly intense courtship of six months, Jennifer and I decided to get married on International Woman’s Day in 1997. Our anniversary is easy to remember, March 8 every year, or 38 for short. In Chinese, these two numbers put together are also slang meaning something similar to obnoquious or annoying when used to describe someone. I always jokingly call myself 38 (san ba), and tell people that it is therefore impossible to forget our anniversary.
At that time, I was furthering my studies at the SW Normal University of Chongqing, a two hour drive north the downtown core in a picturesque town of Beibei. That place is famous for its hotsprings, and during our courtship, I took full advantage of that romantic setting to frolick with Jennifer in the steamy waters, teach her how to swim, and we took long walks on the banks of the Jialing River, which empties into the Yangtze 20 km downstream.
We wanted both a Christian wedding and to keep our ceremony simple, so we invited 80 friends and family, and rented a bus to bring them out on the big day. However, Pastor Ye, our energetic octogenerian minister with a mischevious sense of humour, had prepared a surprise for us. While reserving the front pews for our invited guests, he had taken it upon himself to make it a real community event, and we were stunned to see the entire church filled to capacity with the regular congregation, students from the university, and others who had wandered in off the street just to see what the brouhaha was all about. All in all, about 800 people had come to see this joining of Occident and Orient! People were crowding every little space in the chapel, and we could barely make it down the aisle to the alter. The stage was packed with the choir members whose numbers tripled at the last minute. The blessings were given and we exchanged our vows on the PA system so that those who could simply not get in could hear outside in the courtyard as well.
The reception we held at the university afterward was a much more manageable affair, but in spite of all the succulent dishes and exotic drinks piled up and being spun around the “Lazy Susan” at our head table, neither of us could take more than just a couple of bites and sips. It would take us a few days to come down and recover from the magnitude of it all.
While the evening of a wedding is usually reserved for the newly wed couple to be alone in western culture, in old China they had a custom of gathering friends and having a celebration called “Nao Fang”, loosely translated as "raising ruckus room". We experienced this most fun and unique tradition on our special night.
Our enthusiastic Master of Ceremonies, a psychology professor from the local University surnamed Liu, presided over a number of activities and games that were to designed to have me proclaim my love for my bride, and provide countless laughs for the studio audience.
A little like the “Dating Game” TV show, I had to answer a number of questions regarding Jennifer’s likes and dislikes. What is her favourite colour? Who is her favourite singer? What is her favourite hot pot ingredient? What are all the names of her six brothers and sisters? (She got me on that one!). If I made a mistake, everyone would mock their disapproval with hoots and hollers. I had to attone for every mistake with a heart-felt apology, a love song, or spur-of-the-moment poem professing my undying passion. Our MC also lined up a dozen young ladies, Jennifer among them, and hid them behind a big blanket with only their feet showing. I was blindfolded and my task was to feel my way through the various heels, arches, and toes to correctly pick out my wife. Even before we were married, I often gave Jennifer foot massages. She has thin ankles, slender feet, high arch, and long, knobby toes, so I had no trouble identifying her. I passed that one with flying colours, much to the chagrin of the peanut gallery.
I also had physically challenges like carrying her in my arms up the six flights of stairs in the hotel without stopping. When my biceps and heart were ready to explode by on the fifth floor, I had to put her down. My punishment was to crawl on the floor through a makeshift obstacle course of chairs, boxes, clothes, and people, all in an effort to redeem my tarnished reputation and re-establish my physical prowess.
Around midnight, Professor Liu finally called it a night, and everyone reluctantly headed home. I had played along the whole evening, and barely had enough steam left for our last little private party of two. March 8, 1997 started early and ended late, and was easily the most unforgettable day I had ever experienced.
When I first met my wife’s extended family, many of them did not know quite what to make of me. This was especially true of my youngest nephew-in-law, a cute but very timid boy of 3. A few days previous to me being introduced, they had taken little Xiao Zhang to the department store. He cowered at the sight of the smooth, hairless mannequins modeling the fashions, all of which were very tall and had western facial features. Refusing to go anywhere near them, his mother endevoured to explain, “those are not real people, and cannot move. They are just like big dolls and are made of plastic". That calmed him a bit but he continued to eye them suspiciously.
On the evening we were invited to their home, he was sitting on the sofa beside his father. The minute he spotted me, he started to wail. “What on earth is the matter?”, his mother asked. Xiao Zhang crawled behind his father, pointed at me over his shoulder, and hollered, “It’s Alive!!”
It is interesting how the locals delight in westerners speaking fluent Mandarin. I guess it was not too long ago that many Chinese believed that their language was so complex and impenetrable to foreigners that it was simply not possible to learn unless one was born here. These days it is changing pretty fast. Many expatriates want a leg up in the burgeoning business sector, and the best way to make an impression is to learn to talk the talk. Language classes for foreigners at universities nationwide are doing good business, and Chinese classes for the local populus in North America and Europe are currently seeing an upswing.
While the novelty of non-Chinese speaking Mandarin is beginning to wear off, it is still surprising to see the reaction of some local people when you address them in their terms. In Chongqing, a lot of people do not speak standard Mandarin very well, and I have encountered many people who are actually embarassed to speak to me because my pronunciation is better than theirs. It is also interesting to gauge people's reaction to meeting me for the first time after speaking with them on the phone, knowing that they did not have a clue the person on the other end of the line was a Westerner. The coolest cucumbers take it right in stride and treat me like they would anyone else, but others can’t get over it and their amazement dominates the conversation.
Foreigners who can sing a tune or two can really score points in China as well. I have hosted and performed at over 100 events over the past few years, and enjoy being the local foreign celebrity. In Beijing there is another Canadian, Mark Rowswell, who has created quite a life for himself by mastering the language, performing comedic dialogue, and by having become the most famous foreign face on Chinese TV. In 2001, I met Mark (stage name “Da Shan”) at the 6th annual Foreigners Sing Chinese Songs Competition broadcast nationwide by CCTV. He hosted the event, and I was one of the 12 finalists to croon on stage in front of a billion people. In spite of rehearsing repeatedly, I was still nervous (it is hard not to be, with 800 eyeballs fixed on you in the studio and 2 billion out there on the other end of the air waves), but it turned out well, and I enjoyed the two week production immensely. Jennifer played back up for me and I sung a very simple folk song that many foreigners even know, “Jasmine Flowers”. What the judges warmed to had to have been my humourous adaptation of the lyrics, singing “Chinese girls are Jasmine Flowers, let me pick you and take you home to Canada”. (It rhymes in Chinese). For my efforts I received a second place standing.
Back in Chongqing, I have performed in bars, at business functions, cultural events, concerts, and have appeared on several local TV shows, and have since memorized the words to about a dozen songs. My favourites are folk songs and the older, more traditional melodies. I must be old myself now, as I cannot stand a lot of the pop poop they play on MTV and the radio.
Before coming, I had thought that Chinese music was only the high-pitched shrieking of Peking Opera, and had little interest. (But then again, I also grew up believing Taiwan was somewhere in Thailand.) Since, I have became enthralled with its tremendously diverse and appealing traditional music. Learning Chinese was perhaps the best thing I have ever done, and daring to sing a song has proven to be a wonderful calling card for me in the ongoing exchange of social graces here in the Middle Kingdom.
Perin Aili Hart was born in the Number 2 Affiliated Medical College Hospital in Chongqing on November 20, 2002. Her father (me) is of Finnish-Canadian background, and her mother was born and raised here. She is an adorable child who has really assimilated both of her parental units’ best qualities, and has already proven herself kinder, smarter, more beautiful than both of us combined.
Whenever I take out my daughter on the streets of Chongqing, crowds gather. Often people think I cannot understand what they are saying, and I overhear comments like “Look, that foreigner must have adopted a Chinese baby!” Sometimes when Jennifer takes her out, others assume that she is the nanny or babysitter for some Western family. It really irks her when she hears that! However, most people can immediately discern the fact that Perin is of mixed heritage. It is said that the further apart parents are in the gene pool, the more attractive their children usually turn out, and I would have to agree. Being the one-time founder of the International Couples Fellowship of Vancouver, I have seen quite a few “mixed” families and their offspring, and they often do tend to be strikingly attractive.
In Chongqing, everyone loves to pinch her cheeks, squeeze her calves and forearms, and caress her curly brown hair. I know children are fair game and up for grabs (literally) in China, but the amount of attention she commands sometimes becomes excessive. I do not like strangers touching her, and polite as I try to be, have offended a number of middle age women when I say, “You may look at her, but please do not touch”. Especially during the SARS break out last summer, we were very wary of strangers manhandling Perin, and I felt especially obliged to protect her against straying hands. In my neighbourhood, there are many people from that demographic (female, between 30 and 60) who know my name but do not use it, opting just to call me Mr. “Can Look, No Touch”.
The whole concept of privacy is very different in this country of 1.3 billion souls. One morning last summer we were awaken at 7:30 am by an incessantly ringing doorbell. I thought for sure it was my mother-in-law who still insists on ringing it until someone answers the door, not fully understanding we could hear it perfectly the first time. Wearing shorts and a T-shirt, I went to see who it was. I was taken aback by a very tall, slender woman wearing a tailored brown suit and carrying a tan briefcase. Somehow knowing I understood Chinese and having done her research about our family and how to find us, she said, “Good morning Mr. Foreigner, my name is Ms. Fang from the Shangqingsi Branch of the China Mutual Insurance Company. I understand you have a little Western Doll here, and I heard she is very cute. I would like to see her now, and I also want to sell you life insurance for her.” I stood there, mouth agape at this inconsiderate intrusion, and if I wouldn’t have snapped to sooner, she would have barged right into our apartment seeking her target. I blocked her way in, and said in unequivocable terms, “In western countries, it is very rude for strangers to drop in unexpectedly at someone’s personal residence, especially salespeople!” I had no patience to try to reason with her, and simply closed the door quickly and firmly in her face. I can imagine she went away thinking, what’s his problem? The good news is she has taken the hint and not come calling again.
That is the expression Chinese use most often for foreigners, and has to be one of the very first words that “Big Noses” (not quite as widespread, but used occasionally to describe westerners) hear shortly after passing customs and almost daily afterwards. Hearing it so much has led us to coin our own Chinese phrase to refer to the locals “Lao Nei” or Old Inside. When said tongue in cheek, it will get a laugh every single time.
In Chongqing Municipality, with its aggregate population of 33 million and downtown core of 6 million, there are not many of us, and only a handful that speak the language. For the most part, the attention we get is usually rather positive, and the locals love to drill us with the same old questions over and over – “Are you used to the life here”, “Can you eat spicy food?”, “How much RMB do you make every month?”, “What do you think of Chongqing women?”. To keep from going mad, I have a repertoire of different answers, all of which are true depending on my mood and circumstances. Very seldom do I hear any negative comments here like “Foreign Ghost”, and on those rare occasions, it would be easy to get angry or sarcastic and call someone a “Bum Bug” or “Son of a Turtle” (two humourous local insults that could easily be taken the wrong way so best avoided). But patience is key, and if you weed out the ones who are just out to amuse themselves or have ulterior motives, you can really meet some great people here. Overall, the Chinese are very inquisitive when it comes to people from western countries, and if you are lucky enough to hit it off with someone of integrity and who is “high quality” (a local expression used to describe people who are educated and refined), you can earn yourself a loyal friend for life.
This is one of the great social phenomena of China, and not only for foreigners, the fact that friends and family tend to treat each other like gold. Perhaps this is a vestige of old China, an unconsciously embedded Confucian ethic, but it is my observation that relationships within one’s network of connections are prized and fostered. As a foreigner, people may not always have the purest intentions in wanting to get to know you, but once trust and mutual respect has been established, valuable and lasting friendships often result. Being an “Old Outside”, especially one who is taking the time to delve into the fascinating culture and tackle the daunting language, really puts us at an advantage in forging these relationships.
It is very clear to me that many people in Chongqing are surprised that a westerner would want to live there in spite of the crowds, fog, pollution, and distance from the big cities on the east coast, so are especially accomodating and hospitable.
This dish is the one thing that makes Chongqing the most famous nationwide, a cauldron full of red peppers, Sichuanese peppercorns, ginger, and a variety of other spices that can be scintillating to the tongue to say the least. The word “ma” used to describe the effect of the peppercorns is best translated as “numbing”. I often joke that you could save yourself the cost of anaesthesia at the dentist’s office if you go to have your wisdom teeth removed after eating hot pot. One’s mouth can be numbed into submission early in the meal, making more pallatable perhaps some of the more exotic ingredients like phoenix claws (chicken feet), tripe (cow intestines) and coagulated blood chunks (either pork or duck).
Most expatriates in the area including me enjoy heaving the simpler offerings into the boiling vat and fishing out a decent meal of meat and vegetables. It also helps to have a “yin/yang” pot where half is sectioned off and reserved for a clear soup in which to cook the food. I find that not all hot pots are made the same, if there is too much alkali in the mix, I always get a stomach ache afterwords, and the degree of spiciness really affects my enjoyment of the meal. In winter it is really nice to dig in, and is an excellent way to warm up in a hurry and stay warm all night while the food digests. Eating too much spice often leads to Moctezuma’s revenge, even for the locals, so my advice to first time partakers, go easy! The Chinese expression for getting the runs translates to English as “pulling stomach”. That describes it well!
Overall however, hot pot is a very special and treasured meal here for good reason. For veterans, it is a frequent must and the mainstay of local cooking. For rookies, it may be an acquired taste at first, but can be positively addictive after a few dips in the bubbling red stew.
My wife Jennifer had been having stomach problems for quite some time, and was diagnosed with gall stones in 2002. That was the same year she was pregnant with Perin, so the doctor said it was best to have the gallstones removed about a month after giving birth. We were very lucky to have the head of the maternity department at the Number 1 affiliated Medical College Hospital as our personal friend, and received special attention and lots of TLC from her. She set us up with the best surgeon in the hospital to do the operation. The ultrasound had revealed countless gallstones, so he recommend opening her up to remove the entire gall bladder.
So that was how we spent Christmas Day 2002, Jennifer being sliced open and having an organ removed, and me fretting worriedly in the waiting room. About 50 minutes into the operation, another doctor beckoned me to the operation area one floor up. I immediately imagined something had gone terribly wrong, like they could not find it or performed an operation meant for someone else. I anxiously followed the doctor up the stairs. The surgeon greeted me in the hall with a big smile, and wanted to tell me it was over, and that he had done a great job. He felt it necessary to show me how good he was, and promptly displayed Jennifer’s gallbladder (not having excised it 15 minutes previous). It looked like a skinned rat hanging off the bloody scalpel he had been using on Jennifer. “The gallstones are all inside, let’s see what we have here”. Looking for a place to put it down, he grabbed a sheet of photocopy paper and plopped it on the only flat surface he could find, the heating unit radiator in the hall. Being winter, it was on high, and I swear her gallbladder started cooking a bit as he plunged the scalpel into the organ and sliced it neatly in two. His hands were gloved and covered in blood from the operation, and he used his right index finger to then coax out some of the mischevious gallstones. I was ready to pass out right there but his enthusiasm for his handywork somehow kept me on my feet. “There must be over 60 of those little fellas here!”, he proclaimed”. On wobbly legs and nursing a very weak stomach, I thanked him for all his hard work and personal attention, then managed to stumble over to see Jennifer and her new stitches. At that point, I was in almost as bad shape as she was. We later preserved the gallstones (for what reason, I am still not sure, because we never show them to anyone), after counting 108 stones of various sizes.
A while back, I had a ganglion cyst grow on my right wrist. It sounds a lot nastier than it really is, but it was rather unsightly. What it is is a rupture of the membranes in a joint that keep the fluids in place. Most often a sporting injury, as was my case, a soft bump rises beneath the skin, and mine continued to grow to mini-anthill proportions. The quickest and easiest method of dealing with it is to whack it with a hard cover book every now and again to force the fluids back into the joint where they belong. It stings for a little while, but then a few months down the road I had to do it again. Finally, after getting tired of constantly whacking myself, I decided to go to the hospital to see if I could fix it for good.
The doctors at the local number 8 hospital were amused by the whole scenario, a big white guy with a miniature volcano on his wrist looking like it was about to blow. They said they could remove it permanently but that there would be a little scar that I could use for anecdotal purposes in the future. They saw it as a quick way to make a few RMB as well, and they tried charging me 800 RMB (almost $100 US) for the procedure. Well, having been here a few years, I know most all prices are up for dispute and negociation, so I tried to talk them down. They insisted that that was the standard fee. I said I was a poor student with no income (true at the time), but that fell on deaf ears. I finally pulled out my trump card, evoking Dr. Norman Bethune, the famous Canadian surgeon from my neck of the woods, who was immortalized by Chairman Mao as “Bai Qiu En”. A war hero of sorts and the ultimate friend of China volunteered his services to teach triage in the Anti-Japanese Resistance, and is known by anyone who has gone to school in China as he is mentioned in all the history text books. (Not too many Canadians have ever heard of him however). Anyway, this name dropping paid dividends -- the three doctors looked at each other and agreed to half price. A free piece of advice for other Canucks seeking medical help in China: try this, it may just work for you too!
I had a local anaesthetic jabbed into my hand, and it worked so well they could have cut it off and I would not have felt a thing. They sliced my wrist open, drained the fluid, and cut a 5 cm
section out of the damaged tubing that housed it.
While it was a rather simple procedure, and everyone was optimistic it would provide a permanent solution, I was feeling disappointed six months later when that little round mound rose again. Too bad I couldn’t get a refund! Ultimately, I went back to whacking it over and over, once every few months, and after another year, it finally gave up and never came back! Ganglion cysts I guess have feelings too, and know when they are not wanted.
I sometimes wonder about numbers in the gazillions, and specifically, do the Chinese smoke more cigarettes on an average day, or do North Americans consume more French fries? Those numbers must be out there somewhere, and I really should do my job as a dedicated weblogger to provide them for anyone similarly interested. My guess would have to go to more cancer sticks being inhaled in China. There are few places off limits to smokers, and while they are fairly strict on airplanes and some trains, buses and elevators still see their fair share of putrid air. While the Chinese often say a real man can hold his liquor and should be proud to show of his drinking prowess, I would like to politely counter by saying that in my books, a real man abstains from both drink and smoke. I know a few Chinese gentlemen who just say no and they have my utmost respect and admiration It is not easy in this country where tobacco products are cheap and cigarettes (along with alcohol) are the gift of choice among men, especially in business circles.
In Canada, the government has to foot the bills for its citizens’ maladies, and the long-term health costs must certainly outweigh whatever tax revenue they can garner otherwise I doubt there would be such a concerted effort to stamp out smoking. In China, most people have to cough up (no pun intended) for their own hospital bills, and the government happily pads its coffers with income from sales of cigarettes. Little more than lip service is paid to anti-smoking campaigns, although you do hear of them from time to time. Indeed, many of China’s highest leaders have been the leading advertisers for the tobacco industry, especially Chairman Mao and Deng Xiao Ping.
Smokers back home are relegated to isolation chambers to smoke, and exiled to the great outdoors, where the truly addicted gladly brave the minus 20-degree winter weather to suck their precious weed. So, while few people smoke in Canada compared to China (and considerably less than Europeans as well), smoking is a socially accepted vice that permeates this society in a big way. You certainly don’t see those “SMOKING KILLS!” warnings plastered all over cigarette boxes anywhere on this side of the Pacific.
It bugs me when people ignore the no-smoking signs in buses and on elevators, especially when my now 20-month old daughter has to breathe their second-hand smoke. At home it is easy -- we banish smokers in our apartment to the balcony where they can puff to their lungs’ content, but in public places I have learned to adopt the proper words and attitude to ask offenders not to smoke in front of my child. Most people are fine about it and stamp them out right away when put on the spot, but there are an insensitive few that think their rights are being infringed upon if someone dares to embarrass them in front of others. Once, a chain-smoker I politely asked to desist looked at my daughter and said, “sooner or later she is going to have to get used to smoking, so she might as well start building up a tolerance early” (my exclamation point!), like head-on-fire him billowing smoke in our faces in such a compact area with little ventilation was somehow good for her! Others I ask to stop on buses just grunt their disapproval or ignore me completely. I guess if there were 500 million more crusaders like me across this country, we would have all smokers feeling pretty bad about themselves. The Chinese word for chain-smoker translates back into English as “smoke demon”. Pretty apt description I would say.
Our apartment complex is built on the bank of the Jialing River which empties into the Yangtze about 2 km. downstream. We live on the 29th floor, 4 floors below the roof. The main entrance is on the 12th floor, as these twin high rises are constructed on the side of a cliff. This is pretty common in Chongqing, the Mountain City, where many people inhabit similar structures, and have to go down in the elevator to get home, yet still are above the buidings foundations. Our gym is officially located on floor "minus 3" but lies over 50 metres above the river.
Chongqing is real 3-D, and their are staircases old and new connecting the various altitudes throughout the city. Not only because of the diet of rice, vegetables, and its powerful variety of spices, people tend to be on the very slender side here. No doubt navigating all the walkways and stairwells has a lot to do with their svelte figures. Few locals know what is north, south, east, or west but find their way around by instinct and familiarity. The roads snake throughout the city and are built in response to the varied contour of the landscape. Most of the other big cities in China are relatively featureless and much easier to get around. Almost no one rides a bicycle here, cheap yellow taxis are ubiquitous, and everyone is looking forward to the introduction of the light rail "Sky Train", the first line of which will whisk people up and down the south bank of the Jialing River as early as this October.
Chongqing, the name of this city that literally translates to "Double Jubilation" or "Repeated Celebrations" is entirely unique as far as big cities go in China. Built on the confluence of the Yangtze and another major tributary called the Jialing, it certainly merits the nickname Foggy City. Perhaps no greyer city exists in China as the humidity and moisture from the water, lack of wind, not to mention the dust and pollution, block out the sun for most of the year. Depressing at times yes, but it does have its advantages. The women here have to be some of the most appealing and youthful-looking in the entire country as the humidity and lack of sun damage keeps there skin smooth, blemish-free and wrinkle-less well into their later years. Just do your own comparison with Northern Chinese women where it is so sunny and dry, and you will notice a huge contrast.
In July and August the sun finally burns off much of the haze, and the picturesque qualities of the hilly topography are revealed. With better city planning and more greenery, this could be an absolutely lovely urban centre. The fog will remain however, and that is an inescapable fact. Locals say that in the winter, dogs bark at the strange yellow glow in the sky because it comes out so rarely. Personally, I don't mind so much. I think I look 10 years younger than what my passport says, and that must have something to do with the local climate. Overall, give me South China over the North any day of the Lunar Calendar!
The steamy summer season is almost upon us, and it always amazes me, an unabashed crome-dome baldy myself, how some Chinese men wear the most ridiculous toupees, especially in the high humidity, 40 degree weather of July and August. Talk about cooked brains! My Chinese teacher at the university in Chongqing where I studied a few years back still tries to cover up his scalp with an obviously uncomfortable wiry black insulator, and would receive nothing but derision (and sympathy, at least from me) from his students. This artificial cranial tormentor needs constant adjustment, sweat pours down from it into his eyes and ears, and you can see he is vain enough to suffer the constant itching in order to look "whole".
Being bald in China is liberating, and in summer especially, acts as a natural air-conditioner that is positively divine. I joke that there are three types of men who like the close shaven look -- actors (Ge You and Chen Pei Si to name two), prisoners, and triad mafioso types. Funny combination, that is! But for me, it is comfortable, easy to look after, makes me look younger, and my wife Jennifer loves to run her fingers through the stubble. I just have to laugh when I hear questions directed at me like "Mr. Foreigner, you are so handsome, why don't you have any hair?" The downside is that in winter, I have to wear a hat of some sort all day and night. My favourite is a skull cap made by my sister-in-law made out of one of my wife's old gray skirts, but I think I will keep this sissy fact to myself. Ooops!
Booze of all types is such an integral part of the social scene in the Middle Kingdom, even more so than in North America I would have to say. It is my observation that the 15-25 age group back home consumes much more than that demographic here in China, but adults over 30 drink more here.
While being a non-consumer of anything over zero percent alcohol used to be tough here where everyone loves to try to force it down your throat at all social occasions, nowadays I have a much better handle on it. There is an expression in Chinese that if you do not partake in the bottle, you are not a "real man". I use that to my advantage -- when faced with pressure to down a glass or a dozen, I simply say self-effacingly, "I am not a real man". That tends to deflate the situation quickly and easily, and has worked like a charm for my whole ten years in China.
Watching the locals carrying on in restaurants can alternate between amusement and disgust. They have all kinds of drinking games that can be very loud, but everyone is so used to it that the people at the next table just continue with their own meals and conversation like there was no one nearby making such a ruckus. Selective attentiveness is one major key to survival in such crowded cities.
Tea culture reigns supreme in CQ, and a cup of decent coffee is considered a luxury item and can cost as much as $6 US for just a few ounces. Fresh coffee beans are a rarity here, but all other edible beans (soya, lima, kidney, string, broad, etc. etc) are grown and consumed in great abundance. Hainan coffee is excellent, but is hard to find outside of that tropical paradise. Yunnan Province is growing more nowadays, but I can't get any here :(
I will have to write tons on this complex and compelling city, on its gastronomy and everything else under the fog, but that will have to do for now!
In Chinese, people say "hit ball" where we would say in English "play ball". That leads to the pun on words used when asked "Do you hit ball?" you can answer "No, the ball hits me".
I play on a hard cement court with a few friends on the weekend here, and we try to do our best to avoid the dogs, little kids, restaurant hostesses, and jeeps that invade the court every few minutes trying to get somewhere. The quality of their playing, having never learned the rules or fundamentals properly ranges from zero to five on a scale of 100, but that does not prevent us from having a great time running up and down the cement court, shouting at shot hit or missed, and having a grand old time. Having spent a good part of my youth on the many well manicured hardwood floors of my hometown with some of Canada's finest players of the time, I thought I would object more to playing such hack ball, but I look at it more as a way of getting the blood flowing, returning to the carefree days of high school, and just fitting in with the guys around me as a way to momentarily put aside my otherwise unforgettable status as the local foreigner. And I must confess, I feel like Shaq out there sometimes, blocking shots, hogging most of the rebounds, and scoring at will inside. What a change from my high school days when I was just the shooting guard and never dared enter the paint! Playing ball is always a big "hit" with me, no matter where, no matter when.
I have made the jump over the Pacific plenty of times in my days, but this had to be the first time that I adjusted better going to North America than coming this way. It may have something to do with the rotation of the Earth, I am not sure, but the jet lag always got me down previously. This time though, I was fine going over there but now am way below the weather now that I am back in China. That's weird.
Another noteworthy phenomenon -- the 28 hours or so in transit either way were not as taxing as in previous times. I must just have been better prepared mentally for the long trip, or have done it so many times that sitting and waiting for so long simply was not as hard to manage as before. Still it is not something you want to do too often. I met a guy from Hong Kong once who said he lives in Vancouver mostly, but travels to HK EVERY WEEKEND! He said he conks out the minute he gets on the plane and wakes up refreshed on either end of the voyage. Tough life!
I don't know how those flight attendants and pilots manage long term hauling, their biological clocks must be in utter disarray.
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