Outside on the Outside: February 2006

Its a long one, reader beware...

I grew up in the Union of Socialist Soviet Republics, a nation that was founded upon grand ideals of human harmony but quickly deteriorated into an authoritarian police state. My exposure to life in that country was filtered through the natural optimism of childhood, and, unlike many of the children that grow up in the former Third World, I did not experience the hardships of the Second. But I have been around plenty of people who lived as conscious adults in the USSR and I had developed a rough theoretical understanding of what that life was like. I left in 1989 and only returned in 2005, long after the last statues of Lenin came face to face with the concrete. The underlying point here is that, although I hail from the USSR, I really had no personal experience of the Second World until very recently. (Without going into too great of historical detail, let me just quickly mention that the division of the globe into three worlds emerged during the Cold War, when the United States (and its Western European Allies) represented the global ideology of capitalism and were clumped together under the term First World, the USSR and its own allies represented “global proletarian revolution” and were grouped into the Second World, and numerous other nations (at the time, most of which had just recently emerged from under colonial subjugation) were grouped into the Third or Developing World (many were used as pawns by the first two in their own struggles).

But anyway, the Second World, willingly or not, took the ideas of Revolution, of government overthrow, of the people rising up to form a more perfect society through party leadership and used all of them to create the illusion of equality, a veil which concealed many of humanity’s worst characteristics and created a system to eliminate any internal threats to its stability. (Am I fond of extremely long sentences that don’t make any sense or what???) For a variety of reasons, the USSR could not withstand the contradictions inherent in itself and caved in, a peaceful revolution in its own right that saw the creation of many new nations and rid the world of a grave threat. However, other nations in the Second World did not follow suit, and among the major ones is of course China. The government of the People’s Republic of China realized some time ago that the “central planning all capitalists are pigs and must die” mentality employed by the Soviet Union would not work and allowed some degree of market play into the country, easing centralization and allowing capitalist forces some wiggle room. However, as history shows, economic freedom eventually leads to a desire for a political freedom, and when the Chinese people began to demand democracy, the world witnessed Tiananmen Square in 1989. The government made it clear that while economically China would allow more capitalist overtones, politically it would remain firmly rooted in Communism and the Party. China has recently become the sixth largest economy in the world and many predict that in twenty years it will be comfortably in first.

Ok, ok, enough of this boring stuff. For a second there, I felt somewhat nostalgic for my college liberal arts days and had to humor myself for a bit. Sorry. On to the heart of the matter.

So my brother and I went to the PRC, or more precisely to Beijing (the capital), Xi’an (formerly known as Chang’an, the terminus of the Silk Road and in its day one of the biggest, busiest cities in the world), and Shanghai (the former whore of foreign powers who in the 19th and early 20th centuries carved up China into spheres of influence, doped up its people on opium, and pocketed enormous profits from immensely unfair trade.)

We landed in Beijing and the first thing that popped into perception was the ubiquity of army uniforms, not only by the numerous soldiers and officers everywhere, but on regular people dressed in army overcoats. And these were the old school Soviet style that many may remember. The airport looked modern enough, and judging from the billboards and adverts everywhere, these people have long been ready to sell. And dear me if we didn’t discover this to really be the case shortly thereafter. First things first, we had to get to the hotel. I was told not to really trust any of the cabbies at the airport and to take the shuttle to the city center. So waving off all the offers to get us into town for a measly $35 (a huge rip off), we found the desk where the $2 shuttle tix were sold. The first lady simply, brusquely waved us off, without really even listening to us. Ok, luckily at the next desk the lady sold us the tickets and pointed in the general direction of the buses. We finally boarded this small, on the verge of broken bus and stashed our luggage in the underbelly (a source of vague concern for the next hour or so…) and headed to Beijing Station in complete darkness (there was no light of any kind on the bus.) I guess I could say the real adventure began upon disembarkation from the bus. We were the last to get off, not at any kind of proper stop or station, but rather on the curb by the side of a quite fast moving major road. As I struggled to pull the luggage out, I was somewhat impeded by the sea of crinkled, old, torn pamphlets that were shoved in my face by numerous poorly clad folks chanting almost in unison, “hotel,” “hotel,” “taxi,” “lady massage.” Having fought through that and still largely inexperienced in the ways and means of the Beijing tourist, we began the hour long (yes, one hour long) search for a taxi. As in many other places in the world, at a train station the cabs usually have their own stand, where they pull up, pick up passengers, and leave making space for those next. Indeed, we found such a spot (on the other side of the station, a bit of a trek away) and saw that the passageway leading to the cabs was lined on both sides with cab drivers, each offering their own taxi. No one could speak English, and no one knew where the hotel was, but each was confident that we’d find the way. One guy did speak English and insisted on driving us for a cost of 100 Yuan (about $12). Before, I was told to make sure the taxis I’m in use the meter and so I insisted on this. He said, in a strangely convincing way, that that particular time of day just happened to be a special time, when the meters would be much more expensive and he pleaded with us to trust him. Now coming from Japan (just about the most honest country in the world, where it is almost considered better to kill someone rather than lie or steal from them…), I was unprepared for the deception that would befall us on all sides in China. However, I knew enough not to trust this guy, and we trudged it back to our initial drop-off point to try to solicit cabs off the street. No body really stopped, a few cabbies were just hanging out (and also refusing to use the meter). Getting desperate, we decided to go back again, push through all the offers, and just get into a taxi pulling up at the appropriate spot and demand the use of the meter. Finally, the guy puffed and huffed, but agreed to drive us to where we needed to go (after a phone call to the hotel). Although we didn’t know where we were going, the drive seemed to take a little while (scenic route, the first of many) but in the end, cost a measly $2.50. Finally checked in, having booked a tour for the next day, we could relax a bit and find a place to eat. The hotel was quite outside of the city center (relatively speaking, someplace like Andersonville) so we got a taste of the city life, minus the tourist trap. We found a nice looking restaurant, went in, and began to absorb and process the situation. Quite a lively little place it was, even had an English menu (without any prices written on there naturally). We pointed some things out, ordered a pair of Tsing Taos, and relaxed. A scene at an adjacent table would come to symbolize this whole trip experience. Two lively Chinese girls, eating dinner. Each had a small plate, a soup bowl, and chopsticks in front of her. In the middle were a couple of big dishes of food and rice. Nice and neat, eh? No, actually, every available inch of table space was littered with food, either dropped en route to the smaller plates or simply carelessly placed there. There were two spotless ashtrays, without any butts, because the ladies were ashing and putting out their smokes on the floor. When it came time to pay, they literally threw a couple of wrinkled bills at the waitress (as if she was some sort of slave) and stormed out without as much as a thank you. Quite shocking, we thought, or must be an isolated incident, we thought, but a quick scan of the room proved that it was the rule, rather than the exception. Ok, we thought, observe, absorb, don’t judge, it’s not our place. Meanwhile, they brought our food (two heaping plates of something or other, kung pao chicken may have been one) and rice and beers (monster size bottles). It wasn’t superb, but definitely eatable, and two more beers later, we were ready for the bill, half expecting to be supremely cheated. Grand total came to a whopping $11, and funny thing is, we probably were cheated… Fed, we needed rest, and a few offers of a lady massage later, we were back at the hotel, still adjusting to this country, aiming to rest well before a big adventure the next day.

The next day we were slated to place a major mark on the “sightseeing in China” checklist (actually, one of the primary reasons I wanted to go in the first place). Yes, the Great Wall. Built over a period of 2,000 years, it was a protective barrier meant to keep out the barbarian hordes from the north and west; (yeah, worked real well to stop Genghis, whose grandson became a Chinese emperor and whose dynasty ruled China for over 100 years). Built in many different styles, it was (and is) nevertheless a highly impressive structure, stretching for more than 8,000 kilometers over quite desolate and treacherous landscapes (mountains, which are in themselves seemingly impassable, so why build a wall on top of them???) Anyway, since the thing is pretty old, the elements have had their way with it and many parts of the wall are now in complete disarray and ruin. The Communists, seeing the potential of the Wall, ordered many reconstructions and restorations to many different sectors, which have since become tourist traps. There are various smaller towns which make their industry on the Wall, and as it lies about 100 km outside the center of Beijing, the easiest way to get there was through a tour. We opted not to see the wall at Badaling, where it looks almost brand spanking new (highly reconstructed, complete with souvenir shops built into the wall), but rather to go further out to Simatai, where the wall has practically not been touched since it was originally built during the Ming Dynasty (15th through the 17th centuries). Here it was quite impressive. High in the mountains, the wall traced a path following the mountain’s ascent, so it was quite a trek to climb the steps, not to mention the brutal cold (yup, don’t go to Beijing in the dead of winter). There were 12 watchtowers, with sections of wall connecting them, each getting successively higher than the previous. We were led by a Chinese lady (named Julie, the Chinese that interact with tourists on a regular basis take on English names; 98% of these for women seemed to be some variation of Julie and Anna, while the rest were quite interesting numbers such as Coco or Lemon) who, although a tour guide, knew less about the great wall than I do and used such wonderful English to describe it that I understood about 10% of what she said (sorry, due to later events I harbor a bit of animosity toward her.) Anyway, there weren’t any other tourists at this spot, but we were accompanied by these two ladies claiming to be poor Simatai farmers. They doubled as tour guides and early on I suspected they were in it for the sale; it was quite strange to have the two of them climb the wall with us for the better part of two hours. The views, naturally enough, were quite breathtaking, and I kept pondering the amount of manual labor, strength, and probably lives that went into the manufacture of this amazing wall. Having climbed long enough to be satisfied, we quickly bargained for the books that the farmers were selling (in the end, another rip off) and descended from the mountain via gondolas (thank god) circa 1970s (rusty, paint coming off, etc.) and ate at a restaurant below. The experience of climbing the wall, overall, was fairly breathtaking because from pictures one cannot really see the sheer immensity and size of this thing. Finally set to make our journey back to Beijing, we got into the minivan and drove off. Some two hours later, we were back in the center, fighting heavy traffic (more on that later) which was stalled due to like three or four accidents that we passed (one of which featured a woman sitting by her car in the middle of an intersection, bleeding from her head, without any police or ambulance personnel anywhere in sight). We wanted to go to an acrobatics show, and as I was discussing this with Julie, she graciously offered to have the driver take us to the theater for a conveniently timed 5:15 show. Feeling grateful for this and getting ready to give her a nice tip, I should have known better (especially considering that earlier in the day we had adamantly refused to take some factory tour that she had taken us to, because it was nothing but another attempt to sell us something through rip off). Anyway, she walked us up to the counter and started chattering away; the price she told us was 200 Yuan a pop ($25), which in the U.S. would have been quite cheap, but a complete sham in China. Still trustful of good old Lonely Planet, I told her the price should be somewhere in the vicinity of 75 Yuan, and she said she would use her tourist license ID to get a cheaper price to get a discount. At this point, I could have sworn I saw her slip in 100 Yuan and get two tickets, which she then said she would give to us for 150 each (a stunning 200 Yuan profit for her). And damn was she insistent. As I grew angrier and performance time closer, she was indignant enough to actually give our two tickets to the “tear the ticket” lady and proceeded bargaining with us inside the theater. What we should have done, once inside, was just to go ahead and go inside the auditorium and leave her with her loss. But no, damn it, Roman is too nice, er, weak, and coughed up the 300 Yuan. I was angry and hurt, and in that vulnerable, “I’ve just been completely screwed state” and, waiting for the show to start, could not get in a proper mood for it. Luckily, the show was absolutely amazing (I would say it put Cirque de Soleil to shame, Dimitry would disagree). They had like twenty seven women riding around on one bicycle, people walking on their heads, and this one dude that walked down and back up a set of stairs while balancing upside down on the palm of his right hand. Whaaa? It seemed impossible, and therefore all the more amazing and the show made me get away from the cheated debacle. After the show, we walked around the neighborhood, stopped by a local supermarket (where the prices aren’t inflated for tourists, wow, is China really cheap or what?) and finally caught a cab to the Sanlitun District (where a Western like street of a huge shopping mall and numerous bars and clubs has popped up to keep tourists feeling like they haven’t left civilization behind). That night we actually ate at a decent (for Beijing) French restaurant, where with appetizers, wine, main course, and desert, the whole thing cost $50. Exhausted from the day, we returned to the hotel, determined to make the best of the next day, when we would go to one of Beijing proper’s most famous landmarks.

The next morning (as if the weather wasn’t already cold enough) it was well below freezing and a monster wind that sent chills through everything. We cabbed it over to the famous spot of the 1989 democratic uprising in China (we’ve all seen the man with the plastic grocery bags standing up against a line of tanks). Yes, this was Tiananmen Square, apparently the biggest such open public place in the world. Flanked on both sides by various public buildings and offices (such as the Great Hall of the People and various other socialist monikers), it took about 10 minutes to walk across. Barely anyone was there, on account of the wind, but the guards were still making their rounds and the hawkers were still selling cheap reproductions of Mao’s Red Book. At the north edge of the square was the Gate of Heavenly Peace, which is the entrance to the Forbidden City (another gynormous palace complex where the Ming and the Qing Emperors lived (circa 1368-1911; after that, the Commies used it for a variety of things too – Mao liked to go swimming there as well as invite various ladies “to take ballroom dancing lessons” with). Above the entrance is the famous portrait of the Great Leader which has been hanging there since the revolution in 1949 (actually, that’s a lie, I believe the original was stolen at some point (amazing, cause the thing is like twenty meters high) and replaced) but anyway, it was bullet point number 3 on the checklist. We made our way through the Forbidden City Complex, which is really a series of very similar looking buildings (albeit of different sizes) intermeshed with various courtyards, swimming pools, and smaller, more minor structures. I could see how much imperial frolicking and a generally good time could have gone on there. Actually, Beijing is so designed that the Forbidden City lies directly at its center, therefore the center of China, therefore the center of the world, at least according to Chinese world view. We spent a good hour walking about, but because it was so cold, we had to hurry up. Exiting from the north, we walked through the Hutong district, a series of narrow alleyways and shanties, were people live in extremely close and squalid conditions. It was the first of many encounters with a breed of poverty which I have never seen before. (Definitely more on that later). Getting really hungry at this point and not finding anything, we randomly hopped onto a trolley bus (direct from 1956 Moscow) and a few stops later got off in a different part of town, where many banks were concentrated (another random tidbit – China has more banks than anywhere else I’ve seen; virtually every block will have some sort of bank and it will usually be housed in a quite elaborate building (even though everything surrounding it will be dilapidated) and usually have a strange name like the Agricultural Bank of China or the Communication Bank – what with all those banks you’d think there would be some money floating around, but I don’t really know about that). The lunch destination was a hole in the wall where we had some soup, rice, dumplings, and a pair of pepsis (the last in the house) for a whopping $5. After that, a quick tour of the Temple of Heavenly Peace (which happened to be closed for restoration until 2007) and on to the grueling headache that is yet another ugly side of China – the market. A very large building, containing a good five floors. Each floor representing a different commercial sector (clothing, souvenirs, electronics, accessories, etc) and each floor divided into literally hundreds of little stalls, each selling very similar goods as the next, each manned by one or two clerks, and each sporting nice looking but fake designer “crap.” As it wasn’t the tourist season, the clerks were on the prowl and one could not get any peace here. “Come, come, have a look.” And the moment you’d start having a look, before one could possibly even visually focus on any individual item, “which do you like? Special price for you, you’re my friend.” It was radically annoying, but one had to get used to it if one was to succeed in this ruthless world. I only needed to buy one specific thing, and the rest was pure fun. I happened to be shopping for a designer purse (for a friend) the real thing of which retails for around $900. Many stalls had the fake one, so it was just a question of picking one and beginning the process. Dimitry and I were still amateurs, but getting our noses wet. We found one who had what we wanted and began the haggle. After the niceties (and making a new best friend in the whole wide world) out came the calculator (I don’t know where they get them, but everyone has the identical calculator and it’s the indispensable tool for this process, an endless exchange of numbers). The first price was a special “just for me” price of 1280 (around $160), to which I returned a price of like 100 (around $12). And it went from there. First I was “best friend,” then I was “crazy,” so on and so forth. Our two prices kept nearing each other. At some point, you simply have to say no and start walking away (that moment is the deciding factor – you do it just as you’ve almost reached your own final price) and then they run after you and say ok, ok, final price. You put it in, they say no, you turn around again, and they usually acquiesce, unless even then they consider it too low – then, they let you walk. So we reached around 320 or so, and I was about to walk away, when I noticed that Dimitry was at another stall (three or four away) looking at the same products. He came back and told me the other lady was offering much less for the same purse. I decided to use this to my advantage and introduced the “other lady” factor into the haggling process, thereby unintentionally sparking quite a spectacle. The initial lady (who previously has squeezed my hand so hard I couldn’t possibly walk away) went to the “other lady” and began bitching her out hard core. This attracted the attention of the bosses (I’m guessing that a bunch of the stalls are owned/managed by a select few people) who also got into it. We were just watching. The confusion was building and gradually grew into a whole scene, with quite a number of other clerks and many other folks standing around, watching this intense yelling match. It even drew tears, at which point we were quickly sold the purse for 150 and ushered away. It continued for some time, and even though I felt somewhat guilty, I got over it quickly cause it is, after all, a dog eat dog place. Two hours and three more purchases later, we were exhausted. I had a monster headache (you gotto understand, even wanting to buy a simple thing like gloves takes at least fifteen to twenty minutes, and if your price is rejected in the end, its all for naught). That night we had some lovely Peking duck and retired early to catch a morning flight to Xi’an.
In the morning, we got a good and healthy dose of the Beijing rush hour (about which we naturally didn’t think about when we allocated an hour and a half to get to the airport and check in for our flight). It was literally moving at a snail’s pace, with cars materializing out of seemingly nowhere and the occasional bicyclist or two on what would, anywhere else, be considered an expressway like road.

(Oh, while I’m on the subject, can I just say that China has just about the worse traffic conditions in the world and really puts Russia to shame. For instance, on our journey to the Great Wall, we spent some time on a two lane (that is one lane going one way, the other lane the other) rural road up in the mountains. It was quite windy (as in windy road or staircase, not windy day) and often, you could not see more than a hundred feet ahead due to constant turns and drop offs. Our driver, a brave soul, would constantly make it a point to pass slower moving cars, even if it meant doing so where the visibility for oncoming traffic was practically null. The way the two lane road suddenly turned into a three lane road was gut wrenching, especially when we would come around a bend in the oncoming lane to discover a large semi directly in front of us. Numerous times, both the car that we were passing and the semi would have to swerve to their respective rights in order for us to pass – and if they didn’t, well, you wouldn’t be reading this, that’s for sure. In the city proper, lane markings and street lights seemed to lose all meaning. If you were walking across the street on a green light, you’d constantly have to look out for bicycles and other junkets coming from all directions, for cars making left-hand and right-hand turns from the street along which you were walking, for cars making right hand-turns from the street you were crossing, and god knows what else that could suddenly pop up. We saw more accidents per hour than I usually see per month. The average space between cars in any given congested situation was about three inches and the use of blinkers was probably outlawed. Overall, a terrifying yet exhilarating experience. Ok, back to the point.)

Thankfully, the flight happened to be delayed, so that little tidbit actually allowed us to make it on time. A short flight and a hell of a longer seeming shuttle bus ride later, we were at the heart of Xi’an, inside of the old city walls. (The city has since become much larger than it was during its heyday a good eight hundred years ago, when it served as the starting point of the Silk Road, thereby exporting China’s most prized commodity and importing things from as far away as Italy and England, eventually even from the Americas.) The rest of that day we kind of spent lounging around the hotel room and some minor streetwalking (ahem, not in that sense, although it would have made us some good money). It’s fascinating to see a city still in development. Having recently arrived from Tokyo, where the “shopper’s world” is and has long been brought to near perfection, we were now in a place were people were only very recently given the opportunity to not only accumulate excess cash but also the outlets where to spend it. There were a number of big department stores and a couple of streets lined with various boutiques, but it quickly became obvious that these were still accessible to only a minor layer of the population, in addition to the sparse tourists who roll through this part of the world. Whenever I walked into a store and approached an article of clothing (and in these stores haggling was typically not allowed), a clerk would be right up in my face, practically breathing on me, and even though we probably couldn’t have exchanged more than two words, they all felt it necessary to invade my private space. On the one hand, one might think they are eager to assist with anything I may need, but on the other, more likely hand, I think its part of their training to prevent shoplifting. On the whole, the idea of customer service in China is woefully underdeveloped. In the capitalist world, customer service, in this case for a salesperson, usually carries with it some sort of financial incentive, a.k.a. commission. A salesperson will really try his hardest to sell you something in a way that won’t drive you away because there’s something in it for him/her. But in China, there really is no such thing so there is such callous indifference to the customer that its hard to imagine wanting to buy anything or to deal with the staff in any way. This phenomenon only applies, of course, to the big “corporate like” entities that own many of the boutiques and the department stores. In the markets and other places of business where the product may be suspect, people are definitely in it to make a quick buck and rip off the consumer beyond belief. Anyway, we waltzed through a bunch of stores, I picked myself out a coat (which I tried unsuccessfully haggling for and was told to come back tomorrow for some sort of mystery sale), ate really good Chinese cuisine at the hotel and watched “10 Greatest Jet Fighters in History” on Discovery. What a night.
The next day, we had arranged a tour of the famous Terracotta Warriors. A good two thousand years ago, a farmer rose to some prominence in a region near to Xi’an, worked his way up to become a wealthy landlord in the principality, which afforded him an army, with which he unified what had heretofore been various scattered states into one state and founded a dynasty that was to become the first ruling family of a unified China. As usually happens in such a lifetime, he made himself many enemies, many of which he had killed. Being quite superstitious, he feared that they would come back to get him in the afterlife, so quite a whiles before his own death, he began constructing an elaborate imperial tomb, designed to ensure his safety for eternity. An integral part of the scheme was the creation of the Terracotta Army, consisting of no less than 8,000 life-size soldiers, archers, and generals (as well as numerous horses), lined up in intricate formations, serving as his defense. Each was elaborately sculpted, with unique facial features and colors. They were placed in an immense underground chamber and stood guard over the tomb. The dude finally died, and his dynasty swiftly collapsed a few years after his death as China plunged into a long period of civil war. About twenty years after being sealed, the tomb was broken into and the Terracotta Warriors destroyed and looted (all had weapons, which were now the property of someone else), and the roof forced to cave in. So much for protection, eh. So, for two thousand years, the chamber lay hidden (and remarkably wasn’t mentioned in any historical sources) until around 1974, when a farmer digging a well stumbled upon it by pure accident. Ever since then, the site has become an ongoing archaeological dig, as only 20% or so of the warriors have been uncovered. Some were fully intact, having escaped damage, most were in bits and pieces and had to be reassembled. All originally had brilliant colors, but exposure to oxygen caused the paint to immediately disintegrate (this is why more than 80% are still buried, because the authorities want to discover a way to preserve the color, which the figures still have underground). Overall, my impressions were not so great. Partly because, on the way to the Warriors, (as part of a tour), we were taken to yet another place where they could sell us something. It just so happened to be a, you guessed it, Terracota Warrior Factory. Indeed, it was a factory that specialized in building Terracotta Warriors, starting from little keyring size to full size figures (in fact exact replicas of the real thing). We were told all about the process and then told that it was a special time, that all the figures for sale were 25% off. Oh boy, of course we had to buy…such a unique opportunity…you couldn’t find better replicas anywhere. But anyway, case in point, the whole time I was looking at the real thing, I couldn’t shake the thought that all these guys were made in that very factory, the whole thing was a tourist trap hoax, and that the only reason that it was only 20% was because the factory couldn’t turn them out quite quickly enough. But getting away from that foolery, the dig was split up between three huge pits. Literally, each pit was a large hole, surrounded by four walls and a roof. At the north end of the largest pit were assembled the most complete specimens, of which there were probably only 200 or so. As advertised, there were all kinds of soldiers, life size, unique and all that. But only 200, not 8,000 that we always read about. The rest of the pits were either just hard sand or bits and pieces of warrior and horse, literally in large piles. Overall, it was saddening rather than grandiose. Of course, I could put another check on my list, but I wouldn’t recommend making the trek to see these guys. We stopped by a few other sightseeing spots and ate with the tour group at a restaurant, which, naturally enough, was at the back of a large souvenir shop. A quick comment about tour groups in general. I don’t like them at all. All different types from all different walks of life are thrown together into an artificial collective and are expected to somehow form a bond as they experience culture together. Yeah, may sound like a great opportunity to get to know a bunch of people, but the whole forced idea really got to me. I wasn’t in the mood for hearing about their lives or their travels but had to sit through it the whole time. Dimitry had the right idea of just totally ignoring them, even when a few were brave enough to speak to him. There was this one lady from Ohio or some hole who’s now a professor in Taiwan who just would not shut up and took the most shallow interest in everything. UGH, I just wanted to tie her up to the back of the van and see what happened on a cobbled street… Anyway, sorry, had to get that out of my system. That night, we got back and chilled at the hotel. Dimitry took one of his many naps and I went to buy that coat at the mystery sale, which turned out to be a special (spend 200, get 100 free), so I bought a coat and a shirt and a tie. (whoo hoo, as I never buy clothes…). On the way back, I swung by some side streets and truly saw what China is all about.
An archway, followed by a dimly lit alley way. No streetlights, but illumination coming from holes in the walls lining the narrow passage, which upon closer inspection turned out to be windows of “homes,” with everyday scenes of domesticity to be glimpsed inside. Constant shadows murking and bicycle bells jingling, it became somewhat scary to walk because there was a stream of people in both directions but their faces remained cloaked in darkness. After a few minutes of this, I finally turned onto another narrow street, which had a wee bit more illumination. The best way to describe this one would be the locals’ shopping street. Not a house lining this one went unused. On both sides were obviously homes whose street fronts had been converted to serve a variety of purposes. Some were merely the inside walls of a garage, completely covered in extremely cheap household and clothing goods that very conspicuously lacked any sort of brand name. Others were fruit and vegetable stalls, displayed prominently and often jutting out into the street where snow, debris, and car exhaust would routinely come in contact with foodstuffs that the people were avidly buying. Some were butcher shops, in the most direct sense of that word. The juxtaposition of children’s clothing hanging right next to huge slabs of cow carcass was quite incomprehensible. The butcher would be sitting there with his cleaver and his bloody apron, diligently carving away, a cigarette in his mouth, watching some black and white T.V., obviously from the time before there were any color T.V.s in China. There were many others, selling or buying or offering to fix all kinds of junk, literally. Many such outlets did not have an immediately perceivable use. They were small rooms, occupied by three or four people, just sitting around talking, drinking tea. Obviously they served some public service because these rooms were open to the street, people could just walk in, but there was no visible merchandise for sale. It remains an open question. But beyond doubt, the most prominent establishments (at least in terms of quantity) and also the most memorable were the innumerable local restaurants (using that word is a stretch though, so think of them rather as hole in the wall eateries) that were super concentrated on every block. Very similar in setup, these were the places that could offer one a wonderful meal for under a $1, but even I (who is by no means a Smazo when it comes to eating) could not bring myself to give them my business. Usually quite small, the place consisted of one room (probably the size of a standard bedroom in the States) and would have one or at most three tables with four to six chairs at each. Decorations would be scarce and the entire décor reminded me of simple Soviet style kitchens some of us may remember from the olden days. There were usually customers as well as staff (the staff were all probably from the family that lived in that house) and a friendly sociable atmosphere permeated the room. The cooking would take place outside the room, practically out on the street. There was a big pot or grill or pan and assorted trays with ingredients. Constantly smoking or steaming or on fire, the chef quickly mixed and prepared the ingredients and was at work doing something or other. It may not sound like much of a scene, but again, remember, this was all outside, on a street with rather heavy taxi traffic and the one element common to all of the things present was the dirt. Even though I have never seen as many street sweepers as I did with China (any given stretch of highway would have at least one every few kilometers), everything was covered in a thin layer of dust and the street was littered with all kinds of crap, be it simple garbage, old meat, vegetables, just general debris. Walking along all of this, I felt a mixture of all sorts of emotions, the primary of which would have to be that this was my first exposure to what life for the poor must truly be like.
It dawned on me that to the people for whom this was daily existence, there was nothing, absolutely nothing, unusual, scary, deprived, or obscene about it. They had grown up in this environment and it was perfectly second-nature. Many had probably never resided in places where it had not been so. But at the same time, I couldn’t but wonder about the reconciliation that these people had to make. Literally less than a quarter of a kilometer away was a rather thriving street, lined with department stores, expensive restaurants, huge hotels, and glamorous bank buildings. They would obviously at some point in their daily routine have to pass by that on their way here to shop, eat, and live. How they accepted the unbelievable gap between the two, I still cannot comprehend and will simply leave it at my own ignorance and luck, as I have never, ever had to deal with those kinds of conditions. This incomprehension continued in Shanghai where the gap between opulence and poverty has to be among the biggest in the world. Nowadays, we constantly read about China’s growing economic might, a fact that remained in the back of my mind throughout the trip. But walking down this particular street was so disconcerting, because I realized that it was these very people who labor away for countless hours everyday in sweatshop like factories just so we can have a little piece of junk that says “Made in China.” It was sad to think about who gets the profit from all this production. The people way down on the list were the ones that I was looking at, with the Chinese factories and state slightly higher, and the foreign businesses that buy extremely dirt cheap and sell at god knows how many percent mark up at the very top. Like I said, it made me sad, very sad. But what could I do? I simply walked away, returned to my luxury hotel, and had myself a heavenly kung pao chicken dinner with a Tsing Tao. It was the first time in my life that I could consider myself in the top tier of income and for me, it brought more guilt than I’ve experienced for a long time. With a heavy heart, I went to bed.
After Xi’an, it was on to Shanghai, which, outside of Hong Kong, has to be China’s most modern city, in the Western sense. One could tell. The cabbies were honest, the shopping districts cleaner and more cogent, and the haggling lifestyle confined to a few parts of the city. On our first stroll out, we walked along a side street toward the Bund, the classic stretch of road along the Huang Pu river where, back in the day, many of the foreign consulates were located and where the foreign officials and businessmen squeezing China for all she was worth, lived. But, this one particular street just happened to be the music street. I have never seen such a concentration of musical instrument stores in one confined place. For about five city blocks, there were continuous, door-to-door stretches of piano stores, violin stores, Western instruments, Eastern instruments, more pianos. There had to be at least forty stores all together….pretty amazing. A quick rest stop at a McD’s (where I met a Russian chick (scratch that, she was from Uzbekistan) and her “I’m Mongolian but I speak Russian fluently” friend) later, we were walking the night streets. A quaint little neighborhood of Shanghai’s old town, lined with souvenir stores, the Bund, full of European buildings and establishments, and Nanjing Danglu, the premier shopping street of China. Constantly being besieged by non-English speaking maitre d’s to come eat at their places and propositioned by smooth talking Chinese girls (who wanted us to have a coffee with them, make friends, practice English, who even told me they could help me out when I said that I was only interested in male black amputees), we turned onto a side street and literally fifty feet away from the tourist lights, ate at a nice local place for probably a quarter of the price. Being tired out from the day, we hopped a cab and back to the hotel, to watch, what was it??? Rules of Attraction or something of that nature. Another beautiful day. The next day, we strolled a bit around the old French concession (an area given to the French – literally given, it functioned under French laws and was considered French territory), drank some fine-ass, expensive coffee in a café straight out the 1930s, and haggled away for two hours at a large outdoor market. My head nearly cracked in half, but we did make some purchases, including some DVDs that turned out to not work at all. I did find some interesting things out about the market culture, mainly the conditions under which the staff working the stalls are employed. This girl, not having finished high school (17), works at a stall for twelve hours a day, seven days a week, and then goes home and gives all her money to her family And how much does she make? Well, she said 1000 RMB, which in rough translation comes out to about $125. A month… It was shocking. The purchase I made from her was like a quarter of her month’s salary. Unbelievable. That night, we ate dinner at this Brazilian steak house, an all you can eat deal where husky Brazillians walk around with rather large knives and skewers of meat, dicing you up some upon request. Not the best meat I’ve had, but the quantity really made up for the quality. Afterwards, we went to the drinking street to check out a jazz club. It was too early, so we ducked into a neighboring bar for a quick White Russian. Having walked in, we saw a female bartender, a female manager who spoke good English, and a group of about ten ladies sitting around a table, finishing up a meal. The manager quickly came up and made the friendliest conversation that I had heard in China up until that point, an immediate sign that something was up. She said she was sorry that the girls were eating, which I didn’t quite understand immediately. Nothing wrong with coming to a bar to eat, right? Until I figured they were all actually employees and that this was some sort of hostess or something bar. The idea was that we were supposed to buy them drinks and they would sit and talk to us. “Talking girls,” as they are called in China. Yeah, yeah, that’s just the start. I didn’t want no part of it and tried to explain this to the manager, but she kept insisting, kept asking which one I liked, until I at random inquired about one of them. Immediately, Coco materialized at our table and began to make small talk. I went along for a while until an obvious silence when I was most likely meant to buy her a drink. At this point I engaged her in a bit of philosophy, trying to figure out how she felt about this job and trying to explain why I couldn’t do what she wanted me to do. Her response? “Me thirsty. Me want drink. No drink make me sad. Me go.” Walk up and go rejoin the rest of the group. Ah, she wasn’t that good looking anyway. We had two more of the incredibly overpriced and incredibly badly mixed White Russians (yeah, I forgot, it is just milk with a teaspoon of vodka and kahlua), watched the twelve ladies entertaining themselves via a large screen AIM conversation, and went next door to hear some jazz. It was a pretty cool band, with the singer, Sam, from Cleveland or something, the guitar dude, and a drummer from Okinanwa. They jammed, we drank, we even talked (one of the best conversations with Dimitry to date), and after a stunning rendition of Black Magic Woman, we hailed a cab for the final destination of the evening, the 87th floor of the Hyatt. Supposedly the highest bar in the world, Cloud 9 was so damn high, you couldn’t really even see anything on the bottom, except bright shiny lights. A truly posh establishement; we had some drinks, smoked some Cohibas (which, through a waitress’ screw up, turned out to be much cheaper that meant to be – we ordered Esplendidos, at 250 a pop, she brought us Exquisitos, at 500 a pop), and thoroughly enjoyed our last night in Shanghai. A stumbly taxi ride later, we was back at the hotel, exhausted.
The next day, we swung by the Shanghai Museum, a fine collection of Chinese art stuff and one of the few cultural things we saw in Shanghai and had a fine lunch of Shanghai’s famous dumplings in this local place and then some tea at a touristy spot (the two cups of tea cost about twice or three times the amount of the lunch) and I saw Dimitry off to the airport. That night, I did some last minute shopping and packed and reflected. The next morning, I took the Maglev train to the airport (it takes 8 minutes from the center to the airport, at an amazing top speed of 430 km/hr – that was an exhilarating experience), waited in an incredibly long line for flight check-in, and finally boarded my Air China flight for Tokyo. Back on Japanese soil, I nearly cried…
In summation, then, what could I say about this experience overall? Well, there are three series of questions I could answer. The first is whether or not I liked China (and subsequently, would I recommend anyone going). Unequivocally, I have to say that I did not like China. Although we saw some amazing things and ate some pretty good food, numerous events took place (at the market, on the street, in many places really) that soured our experience. Granted that it is probably unwise to make such a judgment based on only some minor discomforting experiences, but that is all I have. Coming from Japan and having had some exposure to many of the peoples of the world, I have to say that I did not like the Chinese people that we had contact with. They weren’t exactly friendly, and if they were, it was in an artificial “I really want you to buy this therefore I’m your friend” way. Many were rude and exhibited lifestyle symptoms (such as the constant public spitting, everywhere – inside restaurants, in elevators, in the park) that I do not appreciate in the people that surround me. I just did not get a sense of hospitality here, and obviously this reflects on my overall experience. So, would I recommend going to China? I actually would but with a serious caveat. In other words, you should have a pretty good reason to go (more than just “Oh, well, I have this checklist of things to see and I’m really itching to put some marks on it). If you want to make it into a cultural/anthropological adventure, if you really want to learn about a truly different way of life, if you want to experience a social climate that is quite different, then by all means go. But just know that it will not be an easy experience and you will see things that you may not be accustomed to at all. Basic rule of thumb on that is, if you’re just looking for a place to vacation and any is as good as another, make sure China is not on that list.
The second question is whether I am glad or not that I went to China, and again, it carries with it an unequivocal answer of yes, I truly am. Being a person who has a bit of an interest in history as well as a desire to find out about the world first hand, it was a remarkably unique experience for me. Actually being there, being able to see and hear the Chinese way of life added so much to what I had previously gathered from books and T.V. screens. After all, this is the most populous country on earth, with one of the longest continuous histories of any nation out there. There was a lot to see and feel, and even though I ripped on the Chinese people a bit in the previous paragraph, I still must say that I do admire their perseverance and confidence in the face of severe adversity, especially under such oppressive rule. This trip was by no means life-changing, but it was broadening and it did add to my knowledge base, and now, when I talk about China, I could do so from a first-hand perspective. The final question, then, relates to the opening of this entry and its title. Why is it exactly that I chose the word dread to encapsulate this whole experience? Well, quite simply, it best describes the state that I most often found myself in. Nowhere else where I’ve traveled have I felt such anxiety and uncertainty about simply walking the streets. True, I was purely an outsider, a temporary tourist given a brief glimpse, but as hard as I tried imagining what it would be like to live here, I could not, largely because I could find absolutely no desire to even want to. The history of China over the past sixty years (in a general way, 2,000 years) could best be summarized as one of oppression, where an overwhelmingly rural population lives under the rigid society established by authoritarian governments. Even in cities, urban dwellers still have a peasant mentality, and everywhere I could sense how hardened people became because of this oppression. Everything was hardboiled, everyone determined, whether to sell you something or to cross the street. From birth, people know their roles and act them out fully, but once they are out on the street, where appearances say that everyone is the same, no one will budge an inch, the cars won’t stop, and the tourist will get no special service. Communist China made the people into something that I really did not like, and for all the talk about equality, social happiness, and harmony, I was grateful to return to the second heart of global capitalism, Japan.

Outside on the Outside

Tuesday, February 14, 2006

Did You Know...Random Tidbits

Wednesday, February 01, 2006

The China Chronicles: Dread in the 2nd World

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