When the Chinese take over the world there will be more fireworks. Way more fireworks.
The Chinese will find any earthly excuse to blow up shit: birthdays, weddings, project completion, Fridays, Tuesdays, just-because days. Explosions are generally a good way to start your day; they drive away the bad spirits. It's like having a cup of coffee, only it's bigger and louder and far more colorful.
I thought I had grown used to the familiar popping and booming sound that, along with honks and throat hoarks, are the soundtrack of Beijing, but nothing could have prepared me for Chinese New Year.
The boys and I nearly missed Chinese New Year. It is a two-week festival. We were in Myanmar for the first week and a time miscalculation got us waylaid in Thailand during the second. We got home late on the last night of New Year's. It was past mid-night and the fireworks curfew is 10:00 p.m.--in theory at least. The boys were half asleep so I told them we would surely catch the celebration next year. They were too tired to be disappointed.
Fortunately, China does not disappoint. Sometimes it's bewildering, dirty and incomprehensible, but it does not disappoint; the Lantern Festival made sure of that. The Lantern Festival bookends Chinese New Year. It is celebrated on the 15th day of the first Lunar Month on the Chinese calendar. The idea of the Lantern Festival is to trick the heavenly Jade Emperor. Legend has it that some Chinese hunters killed the Emperor's heavenly crane. The red-hot Jade-king responded by sending his horsemen to burn down the whole of China. The heavenly Jade Princess felt sorry for the Chinese people and warned them of her father's designs. A wise man reasoned that if everyone lit lanterns and fireworks the Emperor would be fooled into thinking China was immolated. It worked! Naturally, Eli brought up the minor point that as a God, Mr. Jade really should have known better. I reminded him that we believe in Santa Claus and Leprechauns, putting the matter squarely to rest.
We didn't know about the Lantern Festival until the day of festival itself. It's not like there is a big sign announcing it and, if there was, we couldn't read it anyway. I asked our Ayi the best place to see the Lantern Festival. She responded with a look that confirms that I have fewer brain cells than a lily pad. (I am used to this look in China.) After a careful moment she said: "You go to Beijing." Okay, I got that much, so: "Where in Beijing?" I ask. "Anywhere," (My-chickens-are-smarter-than-you-look resumes.)
She was not kidding. The Lantern Festival is omnipresent and is especially good when viewed from the 28th floor of our centrally-located apartment. Perhaps we are a little naive, but how were we to understand the whole damn city was going to explode? How was I supposed to know that every last able-bodied Beijinger would go pyro? Blowing up shit is Chinese entitlement; it is part of the national psyche. They take fuse duty as seriously as green tea and tests.
As an American raised in the the litigious era, I was used to controlled fireworks shows, shuttling down to a pre-ordained location, circling for an hour to find $50 parking and waiting for 3 more hours to see a 20-minute, musically-choreographed, computer-driven spectacle being ignited from a barge surrounded by fire boats. No way in hell would I ever set off my own fireworks and I always kept a good, safe distance when friends did.
But THIS IS CHINA, as we've grown accustomed to saying, and our first-ever Lantern Festival experience began as soon as the sun dipped below the horizon. We have a panoramic view and our necks got a workout turning to and fro watching the competing displays. We ogled for an hour when one of us had the bright idea of taking it to the streets. Me, who hates loud noises and is terrified of fire, hastily agreed. Everything somehow sounds good to me in China--like riding my bike in rush hour, eating scorpions and taking a 4-hour per day Chinese class.
The Hutong neighborhood adjacent South of us was proving once again that humble people know how to party. There was a fireworks shop erected in the middle of the street, because, the middle of an already-congested street is a great place to pile enough explosives to send the whole of Beijing to the moon. They were selling all manner of TNT classified as way-beyond legal in the US. We are talking 10,000-round fire crackers. Think about that: 10,000 round wheels. We can't buy more than 10-round poppers back home if my memory serves me well. And crates--crates, I tell you--of fireworks with enough powder to shoot colorful sparks 250 feet skyward.
We meandered our way through the narrow streets, watching our neighbors light up the night. I had my hands futilely covering my ears. Sparks and rockets were literally whizzing around us. The booms echoed off the highrises, steel and concrete. I thought of my BFF Phaedra working the Seattle burn ward on July 4th and began to laugh because, fuck it, you only live once. It was the errant rocket that blew sideways and set a car 10-feet from us ablaze that forced us to retreat.... To the fireworks stand..... To buy explosives: bottle rockets and fire balls and the 10,000-round wheel of death. And hand them to our children. I admit, holding the rocket launching tube was exhilarating. The kick-back was thrilling. The lights and sulfur smell of power was intoxicating.
We headed home, limbs surprisingly intact, at 10:00 pm. The boys were exhausted from the day's danger and folly and actually asked to go to bed. I wished them pleasant times in the Land of Nod and took a seat by the window when I noticed a calvacade of cars dumping hundreds huge crates on the sidewalk across the street. There was a flurry of activity as men scurried about lighting fuses and then jumped into their cars. Drive-by Fireworks gangsters. Count down 3-2-1 and the windows began to rattle, the ground vibrating. It was the best show yet. My kids managed to sleep through it. I could not stop laughing. Fireworks never get old. Nor does adventure.
Our upstairs neighbor Mark Griffith took the footage of and processed this incredible video montage of the lantern festival fireworks:
http://www.flickr.com/photos/niffgurd/6834027271/
Friday, April 6, 2012
Sunday, February 26, 2012
Is it Real? Fake? Or Real Fake?
I'm lying on the floor with a bottle of Grey Goose. It's not what you think.
I am inspecting to see if the label is straight; crooked labels are sure sign of piracy. Ayi asks what I am doing. I tell her I'm checking the liquor's authenticity--if it's jia (fake) or not. Austin protests: "But I bought it at April Gourmet!" April Gourmet is the little grocer in Park Avenue that caters to foreigners. April gourmet is where we pay $9.00 for a box of cereal. I swore I would never pay $9.00 for cereal. I caved; I pay it. (Mental note: open a small grocery catering to expats in China = get rich quick.)
According to an American wine distributor, 80% of the alcohol you buy, the upscale grocers included, is fake. Let's assume for a minute that you just won the liquor roulette and selected a true bottle of, say, a nice Spanish Rioja. Chances are that bottle has been sitting in Chinese customs tarmac in 100 degree weather or below-zero-degree weather for gosh knows how long. We had three undrinkable bottles in a row. The more circumspect distributors only import wine in the Spring and Fall when the weather's mild. You have to buy direct from circumspect distributors. You have to know a "wine guy."
We gave up (temporarily) trying to buy wine in China, but there still was this bottle of Grey Goose to consider. Ayi said: "It can't be fake, it has a seal." "But is the seal fake, I asked?" "Hmmmmm, maybe," she pondered.
In China is it hard to know what is authentic. A seal guarantees nothing. It might just be sophisticated forgery. When we first arrived in Beijing one of our myriad "handlers" asked me if I wanted to buy a "real phone, a fake phone or a real fake phone." After mulling over my odd and oddly sincere options I responded: "Um, I dunno?" I asked: "What is the difference?" He said: "I dunno? Price, usually." I settled on a Lenovo, what our handler termed a "real-fake phone" because Lenovo is a legit Chinese brand that produces good but copied technology. (I know some Americans working at Lenovo. I mean no offense by this, I am just repeating the conversation.) The Lenovo I bought was cheap and good but unfortunately it was stolen. Austin ordered me a pricy Samsung replacement that I'm sure is a fake-fake because it sucks.
I was advised to check all the 100 kuai notes that you withdraw from bank ATMs for fakes. (Kuai is the spoken term for the Chinese currency. They write Yuan but say kuai. 100 kuai is about $15 at the time of this writing. I think it is the largest bank note.) Several of the expats here have gotten fakes from banks. Yes, from banks. You cannot hope to get a refund unless you notify the camera right then and there. To do this, you must face the camera and check every last bill before the ATM sucks up your card. You cannot withdraw your card from the ATM because you need to have the transaction time stamped if you want a refund. You have about 30 seconds to check before the ATM sucks up your card and you have to wait in line for hours to get it back. Do I check my bills? Sometimes.
We switched our Nestle water service because Austin claimed the water tasted funny. Turns out an estimated 30% of Nestle water jugs sold are nothing but good ol' Chinese tap water. You don't want to drink Chinese tap water.
To be fair, water scams happen everywhere. The Arrowhead "artisanal" water everyone buys in California is just tap water from a large plant in Riverside that is pumped into toxic BPA plastic. The difference is that US government has strict regulations on tap water. It's safe to drink, for now at least.
We switched to Watson's water. Watson's is the only water company in China that adheres to U.S. water regulations. It is double, sometimes triple the cost of competing brands. We might be getting good water, or we might be paying a mint for tap water. Who knows? It tastes good, but then again so does lead.
On all water jugs in China there is a seal with a phone number and a 16-digit code. You are supposed to call or log onto a site that is in all Chinese and type in the code before you drink the water. If the code does not match a serial number in the company's database, you have been scammed. You do not get your money or your health back. I've tried several times to check our Watson's water online using the Fox Lingo web translator and I get no response. The site loops and loops and keeps me wondering.
Can you imagine waiting on hold just to check whether you can drink a glass of water or have that cup of steaming coffee in your hand? Americans take a lot for granted. Americans are trusting. We have the luxury of being able to trust. Sure, some products escape the testing; the FDA, for example does not regulate household cleaners. (You read that correctly, most are NOT safe. Stop kidding yourself that your all-purpose cleaner must be safe since it's sold in the US.) But our air, water and food supplies are regularly tested and results are made public.
The omnipresence of scams helps explain certain Chinese behaviors I have witnessed both here and in the United States. I remember a Chinese man who came to our moving sale in Seattle. He sat and examined and tested a bicycle pump we were selling for 30 minutes. I insisted that is was in working condition; that we were only selling it because my hopelessly disorganized/undomesticated husband couldn't find his pump (that was in the garage NEXT to the bikes), so he bought another. And another........... My words did not make a lick of difference to this man; he ignored them and continued to pump the handle up and down, up and down, up and down, scrutinizing the gauge with each burst of air. In the end, he offered me $1 for a $60 brand new pump. I sent him away.
One of my favorite cultural activities is watching the scene at the local wet market. Chinese buy their fish live. You pick a fish and the fishmonger thwaps it on the head and disembowels it in front of you. The Chinese typically do not buy their fish any other way. If the fish is alive it has to be real and it has to be fresh.
I'm going to digress a moment and tell about yesterday's fish purchase. I bought two carp (?) to steam for dinner. My favorite fishmonger is inquiring about my children while he swings his arm to the side mid-sentence and bashes the flopping fish's head into a concrete pillar. Some scales and fish juice splash right into my mouth. I'm trying not to vomit as Mr. Fishmonger keeps jabbering away. He throws the still very much alive fish on the nastiest cutting board I've ever seen. He is standing 4 inches deep in blood and guts and quickly adds my fishs' guts to the bilge. He bags up my fish and hands them to me.
I'm already traumatized for sending a fish to it's death in such a cruel fashion when, fifteen minutes later, one of the fish begins to flop and jerk wildly. I'm scream and hold bag at arm's length. I've seen people walking with flopping bags but I just assumed they plopped a whole live fish into a bag. My fish had been gutted! I saw it gutted! How could it be flopping? I'm half laughing/crying and don't know what to do. As usual, I've got a crowd of Chinese people staring at me and they are probably thinking I am Public Idiot Number One. The fish convulses another 5 minutes until I male it back up to the apartment. I throw the fish into the fridge and slam the door shut.
I was now scarred of this fish. I was scared to cook this fish. I was scared to open the fridge door. I know it sounds silly, but my heart was pounding as I gingerly opened up the bag. I was bracing for the zombie fish to hurl itself out and devour my face. I used a long knife to pry open the bag in case I needed to defend myself. Defend myself against a dead (?) fish. Once I confirmed the fish was indeed dead it cooked up very nicely. My kids asked if I could teach Ayi to cook this every day. Yes, that is a grand idea. I will let her deal with zombie fish.
As I was saying, buying a live fish ensures the fish is fresh. It also ensures that those with weak constitution or Catholic guilt consider becoming vegetarian. Before you pick your live fish it is customary to inspect it. The fishmonger places the fish on a plate of shallow water. You will see a row of Chinese people looking in the fish's mouth, lifting up it's gills, poking at it's abdomen. What the hell they are checking for I do not know. I figure if the fish was sick it would have died long before it made the inspection plate. Let's face it, you have to be bionic to survive the pollution/transport in China.
The Chinese will spend 20 minutes inspecting a fish before they buy it. They spend an equal amount of time buying fruits and vegetables. You should see how long it takes them to buy oranges. They pick up and stare at each one, loudly reciting each's merits or demerits. I'm like, "shit, is it orange? Okay then, put it in my bag."
You would think with all the forgery there would be protests, backlash. Alas, the Chinese are a patient and enduring people.
I am inspecting to see if the label is straight; crooked labels are sure sign of piracy. Ayi asks what I am doing. I tell her I'm checking the liquor's authenticity--if it's jia (fake) or not. Austin protests: "But I bought it at April Gourmet!" April Gourmet is the little grocer in Park Avenue that caters to foreigners. April gourmet is where we pay $9.00 for a box of cereal. I swore I would never pay $9.00 for cereal. I caved; I pay it. (Mental note: open a small grocery catering to expats in China = get rich quick.)
According to an American wine distributor, 80% of the alcohol you buy, the upscale grocers included, is fake. Let's assume for a minute that you just won the liquor roulette and selected a true bottle of, say, a nice Spanish Rioja. Chances are that bottle has been sitting in Chinese customs tarmac in 100 degree weather or below-zero-degree weather for gosh knows how long. We had three undrinkable bottles in a row. The more circumspect distributors only import wine in the Spring and Fall when the weather's mild. You have to buy direct from circumspect distributors. You have to know a "wine guy."
We gave up (temporarily) trying to buy wine in China, but there still was this bottle of Grey Goose to consider. Ayi said: "It can't be fake, it has a seal." "But is the seal fake, I asked?" "Hmmmmm, maybe," she pondered.
In China is it hard to know what is authentic. A seal guarantees nothing. It might just be sophisticated forgery. When we first arrived in Beijing one of our myriad "handlers" asked me if I wanted to buy a "real phone, a fake phone or a real fake phone." After mulling over my odd and oddly sincere options I responded: "Um, I dunno?" I asked: "What is the difference?" He said: "I dunno? Price, usually." I settled on a Lenovo, what our handler termed a "real-fake phone" because Lenovo is a legit Chinese brand that produces good but copied technology. (I know some Americans working at Lenovo. I mean no offense by this, I am just repeating the conversation.) The Lenovo I bought was cheap and good but unfortunately it was stolen. Austin ordered me a pricy Samsung replacement that I'm sure is a fake-fake because it sucks.
I was advised to check all the 100 kuai notes that you withdraw from bank ATMs for fakes. (Kuai is the spoken term for the Chinese currency. They write Yuan but say kuai. 100 kuai is about $15 at the time of this writing. I think it is the largest bank note.) Several of the expats here have gotten fakes from banks. Yes, from banks. You cannot hope to get a refund unless you notify the camera right then and there. To do this, you must face the camera and check every last bill before the ATM sucks up your card. You cannot withdraw your card from the ATM because you need to have the transaction time stamped if you want a refund. You have about 30 seconds to check before the ATM sucks up your card and you have to wait in line for hours to get it back. Do I check my bills? Sometimes.
We switched our Nestle water service because Austin claimed the water tasted funny. Turns out an estimated 30% of Nestle water jugs sold are nothing but good ol' Chinese tap water. You don't want to drink Chinese tap water.
To be fair, water scams happen everywhere. The Arrowhead "artisanal" water everyone buys in California is just tap water from a large plant in Riverside that is pumped into toxic BPA plastic. The difference is that US government has strict regulations on tap water. It's safe to drink, for now at least.
We switched to Watson's water. Watson's is the only water company in China that adheres to U.S. water regulations. It is double, sometimes triple the cost of competing brands. We might be getting good water, or we might be paying a mint for tap water. Who knows? It tastes good, but then again so does lead.
On all water jugs in China there is a seal with a phone number and a 16-digit code. You are supposed to call or log onto a site that is in all Chinese and type in the code before you drink the water. If the code does not match a serial number in the company's database, you have been scammed. You do not get your money or your health back. I've tried several times to check our Watson's water online using the Fox Lingo web translator and I get no response. The site loops and loops and keeps me wondering.
Can you imagine waiting on hold just to check whether you can drink a glass of water or have that cup of steaming coffee in your hand? Americans take a lot for granted. Americans are trusting. We have the luxury of being able to trust. Sure, some products escape the testing; the FDA, for example does not regulate household cleaners. (You read that correctly, most are NOT safe. Stop kidding yourself that your all-purpose cleaner must be safe since it's sold in the US.) But our air, water and food supplies are regularly tested and results are made public.
The omnipresence of scams helps explain certain Chinese behaviors I have witnessed both here and in the United States. I remember a Chinese man who came to our moving sale in Seattle. He sat and examined and tested a bicycle pump we were selling for 30 minutes. I insisted that is was in working condition; that we were only selling it because my hopelessly disorganized/undomesticated husband couldn't find his pump (that was in the garage NEXT to the bikes), so he bought another. And another........... My words did not make a lick of difference to this man; he ignored them and continued to pump the handle up and down, up and down, up and down, scrutinizing the gauge with each burst of air. In the end, he offered me $1 for a $60 brand new pump. I sent him away.
One of my favorite cultural activities is watching the scene at the local wet market. Chinese buy their fish live. You pick a fish and the fishmonger thwaps it on the head and disembowels it in front of you. The Chinese typically do not buy their fish any other way. If the fish is alive it has to be real and it has to be fresh.
I'm going to digress a moment and tell about yesterday's fish purchase. I bought two carp (?) to steam for dinner. My favorite fishmonger is inquiring about my children while he swings his arm to the side mid-sentence and bashes the flopping fish's head into a concrete pillar. Some scales and fish juice splash right into my mouth. I'm trying not to vomit as Mr. Fishmonger keeps jabbering away. He throws the still very much alive fish on the nastiest cutting board I've ever seen. He is standing 4 inches deep in blood and guts and quickly adds my fishs' guts to the bilge. He bags up my fish and hands them to me.
I'm already traumatized for sending a fish to it's death in such a cruel fashion when, fifteen minutes later, one of the fish begins to flop and jerk wildly. I'm scream and hold bag at arm's length. I've seen people walking with flopping bags but I just assumed they plopped a whole live fish into a bag. My fish had been gutted! I saw it gutted! How could it be flopping? I'm half laughing/crying and don't know what to do. As usual, I've got a crowd of Chinese people staring at me and they are probably thinking I am Public Idiot Number One. The fish convulses another 5 minutes until I male it back up to the apartment. I throw the fish into the fridge and slam the door shut.
Our
favorite fishmonger at the local wet market. He has an infectious
smile. He is so happy despite being ankle deep in fish guts and working
in water in below-zero temperatures. The wet market is warehouse is
not climate controlled.
I was now scarred of this fish. I was scared to cook this fish. I was scared to open the fridge door. I know it sounds silly, but my heart was pounding as I gingerly opened up the bag. I was bracing for the zombie fish to hurl itself out and devour my face. I used a long knife to pry open the bag in case I needed to defend myself. Defend myself against a dead (?) fish. Once I confirmed the fish was indeed dead it cooked up very nicely. My kids asked if I could teach Ayi to cook this every day. Yes, that is a grand idea. I will let her deal with zombie fish.
This Carp Fought The Good Fight. It was darn tasty.
As I was saying, buying a live fish ensures the fish is fresh. It also ensures that those with weak constitution or Catholic guilt consider becoming vegetarian. Before you pick your live fish it is customary to inspect it. The fishmonger places the fish on a plate of shallow water. You will see a row of Chinese people looking in the fish's mouth, lifting up it's gills, poking at it's abdomen. What the hell they are checking for I do not know. I figure if the fish was sick it would have died long before it made the inspection plate. Let's face it, you have to be bionic to survive the pollution/transport in China.
The Chinese will spend 20 minutes inspecting a fish before they buy it. They spend an equal amount of time buying fruits and vegetables. You should see how long it takes them to buy oranges. They pick up and stare at each one, loudly reciting each's merits or demerits. I'm like, "shit, is it orange? Okay then, put it in my bag."
You would think with all the forgery there would be protests, backlash. Alas, the Chinese are a patient and enduring people.
Black and Blue
I finally broke down and bought an air purifier today. If you read my post "The Canary Dies at 500" you perhaps can appreciate the magnitude of Beijing's pollution. On days when the wind is still, we cannot see our neighboring high-rise buildings and our apartment lobby is shrouded in a ghostly brown mist. The air stinks, your hair stinks, your clothes stink, your skin stinks, your house stinks, your dog stinks. Maybe your dog stinks anyway. Within minutes, smoogers-- "smog boogers"-- crust up your nose and your skin responds with an angry rash.
Austin took a picture from the balcony of our Apartment. There is another high-rise next to our building, though you can't see it due to pollution.
Living in the land of the EPA, you can't possibly imagine what I am talking about. You want to live vicariously though us you say? Well, here is a fun family activity: 1. Grind those Kingsford charcoal briquettes moldering on your deck to a fine dust 2. Put the coal ash on some newspaper and mist it with Lysol or whatever toxic cleaner you use to kill germs. 3.) Take the slightly damp powder into your home. 4. Take a large fan, tilt it down on the pile. 4) Gun the fan and stand like you are model in front of a blower. 5) Feel the chlorine, arsenic, mercury, chromium, sulfur, lead and radionuclides bathing your every atom. Inhale the eau de Beijing. 6) Cough. Hoark up a throat cocktail. 7) Celebrate by buying the whole family toxic shit from China. Repeat.
I bought a brand new Blue Air, Model E for Extortion, Air purifier. They are so expensive I am hoping I can at least rig it up for secondary use, say, put some wheels on it some day and drive it. I've held off so long because I'm not entirely convinced air purifiers work. Years ago I read in Consumer Reports that air purifiers were garbage, a total scam. Granted, this Blue Air ain't no Sharper Image ionic tower. It's bigger than an air conditioner. Blue Air tells me I will get miraculous results and would they lie? Plus, expats swear by them.
I only bought one purifier and it's for the boys' room. Austin and I are emphesyma expendable. Not even Austin's current cough--the worst he has ever had--convinced him that we need to fork over the kids' college funds to buy a second purifier. Twelve days of coughing so hard he pukes and he is holding firm. That's one stubborn, cheap-ass man.
I myself was hoping to dither so much on the topic that we would actually be packing to return home before I made a decision; however, it was Eli's recent "reactive lung" diagnosis that had me speed-dialing Blue Air. Reactive lung disease is a step below asthma; thankfully, he does not have the total airway closure of asthma. Instead, sickness or exposure to pollutants make his lungs swell, causing searing pain and rib-cracking coughing jags that can plague him for weeks.
Reactive Lung Disease is genetic so Eli's diagnosis was my diagnosis, 36 years after the fact. Turns out three generations of the Duncan/Tracy ladies that came prior all have inflammatory lungs. Finally my own "weak constitution" made more sense. Nobody spoke much in my family, but I do remember overhearing that my grandmother had to move from toxic Los Angeles to Tucson in the early sixties because her kids' coughing kept them out of school. Flash to the night when I was seven and I witnessed my grandmother doubled over in her tiny kitchen coughing so badly she could barely breathe and hearing the crack of her ribs, a sound I will never forget. My whole life I have had difficulty shaking colds. Coughs linger for months. I cracked two of my own ribs from hacking.
Eli rarely gets sick but when he does the fevers spike and and body-racking coughs persist well after the contagion period. The lung swelling makes a person more susceptible to pneumonia and Eli got pneumonia last year with 105 fever after ice and Tylenol. It took us moving to Beijing to understand truly how sensitive your bodies are. (This from a girl who vomits if she walks down the conventional household cleaner aisle in the grocery store.) When I wake up in the morning, I can tell you what the AQI is just based on how bad my lungs hurt.
Now that we uprooted Eli and dropped him in a virtual coal mine, I am feeling totally guilty. As our already departed expat friends said: "You have to buy the air purifiers. Sure, they might be rubbish, but if your kids get lung cancer in their lifetime, you're gonna blame yourself."
Right then. 1-800-BLUEAIR. I'd like a unit for each room. Take everything I got as collateral. I promise I will try not to dwell on the hypocrisy of buying an air purifier that uses coal-fired electricity.
Tuesday, February 7, 2012
99 Bottles of Gas in My Van
At age 12, I declared myself a vegetarian because "I like cows." I donated my allowance to PETA. I cried when developers began paving over the Tucson desert, destroying coyotes' and horned-toads' natural habitat. I declared war on golf courses. (Have you heard me snort when you've asked whether I play/like golf? You're lucky I just snort--you should hear my internal excoriations.)
In short, I became a tree-hugger and for years have stubbornly clung to my self-imposed moniker, trying my best to make Greenpeace proud. In sum: I love nature and hate what human's voracious appetite for convenience/wealth is doing to it.
Until moving to China, I was been pretty pleased with my enviro cred and pretty underwhelmed by everyone else who is not on the same bus. Until our trip to Burma, I would have readily ticked off my "impressive" list of green accomplishments to anyone willing to listen.
My Erstwhile Impressive List
(Please feel free to roll your eyes and skip this)
1. We don't have a car here in Beijing.
2. I've never had air conditioning
3. I only use vinegar, baking soda and natural, biodegradable soap for ALL my cleaning needs.
4. I participate in CSA (community-supported agriculture) for my fruits and veggies. (Not true in China.) I'm not vegetarian, but I can get pretty close to it.
5. I buy organic, I buy local.
6. I never use paper towels or paper napkins, I use washable, reusable rags.
7. I never use plastic sandwich bags for kids' lunches
8. 80% of the boys' clothes/toys/books are second-hand
9. I have a clothes line and use it whenever possible.
10. I recycle and compost (even in China.)
11. My family uses public transportation whenever possible.
12. Austin rides his bike to work (I get association points for this.)
13. I use non-toxic products, like paint, and drive anything toxic to the household hazardous waste sites.
14. I gather used batteries from people so Amazon.com can recycle them.
15. I diapered my babies with cloth and washed them myself and dried them out on the line.
16. We don't even use a heater in Beijing! (We use our passive solar heating very well!)
Now, if you read this list. Ignore it. It's pathetic. Here's why:
When me moved to China, we could only take what could fit into box roughly the size of a washing machine and our checked baggage, mainly duffle bags sausaged with clothes and shoes. We had a much larger shipment coming by boat which was scheduled to arrive between 1 and six months after us.
We lived well off this one box. We did great. We were fine. We were happy. Our earthly Beijing possessions consisted mostly of Legos, kitchen utensils and children's books. We had to supplement the box with a trip to Ikea to buy bed sheets for the larger beds in our apartment, but mostly we lacked nothing and did not miss our American "stuff," aside from our bikes and my pole.
So when our sea shipment arrived I was horrified. WHAT WAS ALL THIS SHIT? And why did I feel the need to bring it? With each box that was dumped into my living room--there were 56 in all--I felt my cheeks burning hotter. It was like unwrapping a department store. It was judgment day in my own heart. I immediately began foisting items onto the movers: "Here take this!" "You want this?" "A gift from America, the world's most egregious consumers!""With love, from Macy's!"
My moment of shame was intensified by our Ayi's presence. She was there to witness my abject hedonism, my consumption addiction, my one-woman assault on our gorgeous earth. Unloading our clothes was the worst part. I cringed until I had lockjaw when she pulled out one, two, three, four, five pairs of Austin's jeans. Five pairs? This does not include all his pants. I thought all along that we were modest apparel consumers, after all our clothes fit into two tiny, circa 1930 closets. We've never had these walk-in closets that are bigger than most world denizens' living quarters or anything. Really, how irresponsible are we?
I wanted to dismiss our Ayi early, I couldn't bear the shame. I could not look her in the eye. I was thinking of how to say "you can go home now" with my two classes worth of Chinese (Ayi does not speak a word of English) when she held up a pair of jeans riddled with holes and shellacked in coal miner's patina. She asked me a question. I did not understand. She always knows when I'm confused because I bobblehead and my jaw drops open. She is sweet enough to pantomime until I understand, and acted out throwing-away-the-pants. Surely I had meant to discard them? Trashed-out jeans such as these were not suitable to wear in public.
"Oh! NO! NO! NO! Those are nice jeans! The are expensive! They are designer! We bought them with holes and grease and stains! You can't throw those........" Yep, I was speaking in English again as my most patient and intelligent Ayi carefully placed the designer jeans on the heap of other designer jeans.
I began to giggle. Then laugh. Then laugh so hard tears welled in my eyes. I felt so stupid, so hypocritical, yet I know that ayi was not judging me for my consumption. I think most humans secretly or openly aspire to reach the American standard of living. How can I tell her it's too much? I want to warn her of the pitfalls, the fact that money in many cases comes before family, before God. How can I let her know that the world cannot support an American lifestyle for everyone?
Our trip to Burma was the second proverbial slap in my ignorant face. Tree Hugger? Please. In an ivory tower, there ain't no trees.
Burma was like time traveling. Progress has passed the country entirely. The fields of Burma are still plowed by oxen, water hand-carried from wells and cars are scarce. Gasoline is purchased out of used water bottles and liquor bottles at road-side stands. I did not see a single gas station in all of Burma, not even in Yangon, the capital city.
I saw two cars outside of Yagon and the occasional tractor. There aren't yet decent paved roads. Taxis were horse-drawn in Bagan. Some enterprising B
urmese take simple tractor engines and attached them to pickup truck cab to make some incredibly loud and jittery vehicles that looked comical with their exposed belts whirring and the exhaust huffing and puffing. You certainly don't need gas or oil for heating. The country is bloody hot--the cool, dry season posting temperatures in the 90s.
This will change, I give it ten years. Don't get me wrong, I want progress for the beautiful Burmese. I want everybody in this world to have access to education, healthcare, clean water and healthy food. I am just not optimistic enough to believe our earth has the resources to sustain 7 billion 3-car families.
So my youngest son Finn was studying the petrol stand under the tamarind tree when he asked: "Mommy, how many bottles would it take to fill up our mini-van in Seattle."
"About Ninety Nine." Ninety nine. Ninety-nine fucking bottles of petrol in my van. Ninety-nine bottles to haul my over-privileged family to The Children's Museum of Everett, to private swim lessons, to Remlinger Farms, to the beach, to Whole Foods, to the Science Center, to the library, to sundry parks, camping, hiking, biking.
At least I don't drive an RV.
In short, I became a tree-hugger and for years have stubbornly clung to my self-imposed moniker, trying my best to make Greenpeace proud. In sum: I love nature and hate what human's voracious appetite for convenience/wealth is doing to it.
Until moving to China, I was been pretty pleased with my enviro cred and pretty underwhelmed by everyone else who is not on the same bus. Until our trip to Burma, I would have readily ticked off my "impressive" list of green accomplishments to anyone willing to listen.
My Erstwhile Impressive List
(Please feel free to roll your eyes and skip this)
1. We don't have a car here in Beijing.
2. I've never had air conditioning
3. I only use vinegar, baking soda and natural, biodegradable soap for ALL my cleaning needs.
4. I participate in CSA (community-supported agriculture) for my fruits and veggies. (Not true in China.) I'm not vegetarian, but I can get pretty close to it.
5. I buy organic, I buy local.
6. I never use paper towels or paper napkins, I use washable, reusable rags.
7. I never use plastic sandwich bags for kids' lunches
8. 80% of the boys' clothes/toys/books are second-hand
9. I have a clothes line and use it whenever possible.
10. I recycle and compost (even in China.)
11. My family uses public transportation whenever possible.
12. Austin rides his bike to work (I get association points for this.)
13. I use non-toxic products, like paint, and drive anything toxic to the household hazardous waste sites.
14. I gather used batteries from people so Amazon.com can recycle them.
15. I diapered my babies with cloth and washed them myself and dried them out on the line.
16. We don't even use a heater in Beijing! (We use our passive solar heating very well!)
Now, if you read this list. Ignore it. It's pathetic. Here's why:
When me moved to China, we could only take what could fit into box roughly the size of a washing machine and our checked baggage, mainly duffle bags sausaged with clothes and shoes. We had a much larger shipment coming by boat which was scheduled to arrive between 1 and six months after us.
We lived well off this one box. We did great. We were fine. We were happy. Our earthly Beijing possessions consisted mostly of Legos, kitchen utensils and children's books. We had to supplement the box with a trip to Ikea to buy bed sheets for the larger beds in our apartment, but mostly we lacked nothing and did not miss our American "stuff," aside from our bikes and my pole.
So when our sea shipment arrived I was horrified. WHAT WAS ALL THIS SHIT? And why did I feel the need to bring it? With each box that was dumped into my living room--there were 56 in all--I felt my cheeks burning hotter. It was like unwrapping a department store. It was judgment day in my own heart. I immediately began foisting items onto the movers: "Here take this!" "You want this?" "A gift from America, the world's most egregious consumers!""With love, from Macy's!"
My moment of shame was intensified by our Ayi's presence. She was there to witness my abject hedonism, my consumption addiction, my one-woman assault on our gorgeous earth. Unloading our clothes was the worst part. I cringed until I had lockjaw when she pulled out one, two, three, four, five pairs of Austin's jeans. Five pairs? This does not include all his pants. I thought all along that we were modest apparel consumers, after all our clothes fit into two tiny, circa 1930 closets. We've never had these walk-in closets that are bigger than most world denizens' living quarters or anything. Really, how irresponsible are we?
I wanted to dismiss our Ayi early, I couldn't bear the shame. I could not look her in the eye. I was thinking of how to say "you can go home now" with my two classes worth of Chinese (Ayi does not speak a word of English) when she held up a pair of jeans riddled with holes and shellacked in coal miner's patina. She asked me a question. I did not understand. She always knows when I'm confused because I bobblehead and my jaw drops open. She is sweet enough to pantomime until I understand, and acted out throwing-away-the-pants. Surely I had meant to discard them? Trashed-out jeans such as these were not suitable to wear in public.
"Oh! NO! NO! NO! Those are nice jeans! The are expensive! They are designer! We bought them with holes and grease and stains! You can't throw those........" Yep, I was speaking in English again as my most patient and intelligent Ayi carefully placed the designer jeans on the heap of other designer jeans.
I began to giggle. Then laugh. Then laugh so hard tears welled in my eyes. I felt so stupid, so hypocritical, yet I know that ayi was not judging me for my consumption. I think most humans secretly or openly aspire to reach the American standard of living. How can I tell her it's too much? I want to warn her of the pitfalls, the fact that money in many cases comes before family, before God. How can I let her know that the world cannot support an American lifestyle for everyone?
Our trip to Burma was the second proverbial slap in my ignorant face. Tree Hugger? Please. In an ivory tower, there ain't no trees.Burma was like time traveling. Progress has passed the country entirely. The fields of Burma are still plowed by oxen, water hand-carried from wells and cars are scarce. Gasoline is purchased out of used water bottles and liquor bottles at road-side stands. I did not see a single gas station in all of Burma, not even in Yangon, the capital city.
I saw two cars outside of Yagon and the occasional tractor. There aren't yet decent paved roads. Taxis were horse-drawn in Bagan. Some enterprising B
urmese take simple tractor engines and attached them to pickup truck cab to make some incredibly loud and jittery vehicles that looked comical with their exposed belts whirring and the exhaust huffing and puffing. You certainly don't need gas or oil for heating. The country is bloody hot--the cool, dry season posting temperatures in the 90s.This will change, I give it ten years. Don't get me wrong, I want progress for the beautiful Burmese. I want everybody in this world to have access to education, healthcare, clean water and healthy food. I am just not optimistic enough to believe our earth has the resources to sustain 7 billion 3-car families.
So my youngest son Finn was studying the petrol stand under the tamarind tree when he asked: "Mommy, how many bottles would it take to fill up our mini-van in Seattle."
"About Ninety Nine." Ninety nine. Ninety-nine fucking bottles of petrol in my van. Ninety-nine bottles to haul my over-privileged family to The Children's Museum of Everett, to private swim lessons, to Remlinger Farms, to the beach, to Whole Foods, to the Science Center, to the library, to sundry parks, camping, hiking, biking.
At least I don't drive an RV.
Lost on the Innocent
The longboat dropped Eli and I off on the far reaches of Ngapali Beach. Neither of us fancied spending another minute bouncing along the Bay of Bengal in a primitive water craft. We were feeling rotten, our dizziness was punctuated only by our asses' rhythmic slamming into the hard wooden seats.I never used to get sea sick before having kids. I'm not even sure it was sea sickness making us miserable. I was six days into my "Burmese diet," whereby all food was about as tantalizing as the dung chip I accidently ate. (The chunk of poop was disguised in my bag of pumpkin seeds. Pumpkin seeds are roasted over ox patties, imbuing them with an assy-grassy patina.) Eli was four days into the *diet* and just came off another round of Toilet Olympics and fever. We thought the sun and surf might wisk good health and appetites back into our bodies. We thought wrong.
Sickness, however, rarely stops us from adventuring. Our traveling partners, the Griffiths, called us the "Happy Barfers" after witnessing several rounds of Sheppard Boot and Rally Power. Today our malaise landed us in a itinerant fishermen's village, a long, hot walk/crawl from our hotel.As soon as our toes touched the sand, a mob of children from the village surrounded us, staring and shrieking and giggling. I had to adjust my slipping longyi.(Longyi: a long, wrapped skirt worn by both men and women. They are cool, comfortable and good at prote
cting legs from mosquitos.) I untied it and the colorful woven fabric billowed in the breeze like a sail, exposing my bare legs, which sent the kids into peels of laughter. The funny white lady was now the half-naked funny white lady. At first I'm thinking, "huh? Why ya'all laughing? I'm in a swimsuit and we are on a beach. Big deal. What else are you supposed to wear on a beach?" Just then I realized I had never seen a Burmese woman swimming, much less in a bathing suit. I started laughing, imagining the fireside conversation that would ensue.When their l
aughter subsided and I cinched my longyi back into place something sad happened. All the children began cupping their hands to their mouths, the universal sign asking us for food. I didn't have food, save a bag of leftover poopy pumpkin seeds that I was happy to unload. I didn't have money one me, not that I make it a habit to give out money. Dammit, I didn't even have pencils or pens I could offer up. If parents can't afford pencils or paper, their kids can't attend school, so I try to keep a stash handy for such encounters.I'm not new to witnessing this kind of poverty. I've lived in South American and Mexico. I've seen kids glue huffing to keep their hunger at bay, blood pouring from their nostrils as the chemicals slowly and painfully destroy brain tissue. I've seen shanty towns larger than most American cities. Images of abject poverty often haunt my dreams. Confusion, guilt and helplessness at times overwhelm me even though I know these feelings don't change jack and put me in that paralyzing dark place.
Eli, on the other hand, is a novice to poverty. Sure, we've talked about it. He's seen a few pictures in National Geographic magazine. I don't want my kids growing up entitled brats. God no.
Eli has never experienced poverty like he did in this village in Myanmar. He's never seen children ask strangers for food. These kids wore rags, they were dirty, snotty and had oozing eyes. They had that look of mal-nourishment. They were the children of migrant fisherman whose parents earned less than the $3 per day per capita national average. I spend more that $3 every minute. (Add your rent or your mortgage into the equation and so do you.) There was no school in the village, no doctors, no utilities. When the catch is bad, there is nothing to eat. The boatmen told me the catch has been very bad.
I want to make it clear that Burmese poverty is not the abject poverty I've seen elsewhere. The people mostly look very happy, not desperate. I didn't see that God-When-Is-This-Suffering-Going-to-End look. But poverty is poverty and Eli inquired why the kids kept asking us for food. We talked at length about the lives of the children in a village like this one. He listened intently and added his own insight. Sometimes I think I am talking with a 45-year old man and forget he is only 7.
We continued walking along the beach in silence, me pondering what I could possibly do to improve the lives of these children, Eli scanning the shore for flotsam. We saw dead fish, flip flops, shell and coral fragments, tattered flags, anchors, plastic bags, glass, bottlecaps, even a giant horseshoe crab. Eli stopped to examine and appreciate every shore treasure, no matter how banal. The mile and a half walk would take us hours. It always does. Eli then piped up and said the unexpected, something that totally shocked me: "Mom I would love to live in this village. Every morning I could wake up and see what the ocean brings me."
I was struck by utter innocence of my son. After talking about the hardships of life in the village, he still wants to live with with the will and whims of the tide. God bless him.
Tuesday, January 17, 2012
Dog: It's not just for dinner anymore?
Okay, let me clear up some misconceptions about the Chinese. First off, the Northern Chinese don't eat dog. You might find dog on the menu in Southern China, but not here in Beijing. Northern China and Southern China may as well be two different countries, like San Francisco and Los Angeles. Different climates, different people, mutual loathing. Here in China you have the further divide of languages. I had better luck speaking English in Hong Kong and Hainan than I did Mandarin, the supposed "Common Language."
More news that might go against everything you thought you knew about the Chinese: not all Chinese are 5 feet 3 inches tall on their tippy toes. Yao Ming is Beijing ren (folk) and he is in the company of giants. Northern China was repeatedly invaded by the the Mongols in the North. The Mongols were some tall-ass, fierce, horse-riding raiders that rendered the Great Wall the greatest defensive joke in the history of mankind. (Note to self: you could get jailed/killed for writing negative words about The People's Wall.) Over time the Mongols, you know, "mingled" with the Han Chinese and presto, my own 5 foot 9 stature is blaise.
After traveling to Hong Kong and the southernmost island of Hainan, I can tell you that the Beijingers don't have the monopoly on tall. Chinese everywhere are getting taller; nature naturally selects for the tall gene. The size difference between generations here is startling. The Mao generation as I call them--anyone over the age of 50, and especially those in their seventies and older are so tiny they sometimes seem like sweet dolls. You want to give them a hug for having endured hardship for so long, but don't be fooled by little grannie: she's a tiger backed up to a cliff holding eight cubs by their scruff. She will beat you with her purse to get on the bus; she will push you right off a curb rather than go around; she will steal a balloon from your child and give it to her own grandchild. (All three examples are true stories.)
Gen Y and Z and whatever the hell those really young people running around are called have deeper pockets and fuller plates, and the Chinese diet has changed tremendously in the past 5 years. Five times more meat is consumed per capita today than in 2007. Milk and yogurt are marketed as heavily as the iPhone. Based on my own count, there are more brands of yogurt in China than in America.
So back to the topic of dogs. The good news is that our fiesty little dachshund Ruby is not in danger of being eaten in Beijing. Ducks, bunnies and pot-belly pigs are all fair game, but dog is not on our neighbor's menu.
Having Ruby here with us has certainly colored our Chinese experience. I've found you can learn a lot about people through your dog. I think back to one of our neighbors in Seattle who does not know my name or my children's names. She never even looked at me, but would have lengthy conversations with Ruby, petting and plying her with treats.
Dog culture is new in China. Dogs themselves are obviously not new to the region. According to the Chinese, everything originates from China, dogs being no exception. I'm talking about a pampered pooch culture where the family dog is just that: family. An often over-the-top animal worship (uh, health care plans for your guinea pig anyone?) you only find in America and Europe.
Within the last 5 years, the very rich and mostly single Chinese crowd have begun adopting the pet-as-family modus operandi. In this socioeconomic division, dogs are a form of personal expression as well as a four-legged fashion show. I see dogs wearing everything from designer jeans (with poop flaps) to shoes. In warmer weather the shoes come off to reveal painted dogie toe nails. There are a surprising number of stores dedicated to dog fashion. I am told that in Shanghai people parade their pooches in special strollers to avoid dirty paws. What's the point of giving your dog a walk?
Outside of this affluent bubble, the Chinese mostly dislike or distrust dogs, perhaps viewing them as competition for food and disease carriers. Nobody seems to mind that they are terrific organic-waste generators. Nobody scoops poop, excepting myself and the maybe five other Americans here. Dog poop is fine, dogs are not. Most Chinese are terrified of dogs, even Ruby--especially Ruby, our 8-pound, yap-tastic diva.
The Chinese in our building will not get on the elevator if I have Ruby with me. We live on the 28th floor and she has a tiny bladder--that's a lot of lonely elevator rides. Sometimes I can cajole my Park Ave neighbors into the lift by re-assuring them Ruby is hen hao (very good) and she doesn't bite. Other times the elevator doors close and I descend alone, still feeling the glare of angry eyes.
Stink eye is the least of my woes; multiple children have kicked Ruby. (In America, kids swarm her with love and I have trouble freeing her up for a walk!) I've had Chinese parents/grandsparents shout at me for letting Ruby near their child, even though she is on a leash and usually wagging her tail. I've had two delivery personnel refuse to come near our door because I was holding Ruby. I even had to cage Ruby before our utilities key-card recharger (yes, that is actually a job in China. We pay someone to insert a card into our meters when we run out of utilities) would enter the house. She was crying and shaking in fear while I'm thinking: "How do you survive a door-to-door job? I KNOW I am not the only one in these buildings with a dog, but please sack-up and recharge my fucking meter because I have no water! "
SHE'S 8 POUNDS FOR CHRISSAKE! WHAT COULD SHE POSSIBLY DO TO YOU THAT THE POLLUTED AIR, TOXIC FOOD AND THE DANGEROUS ROADS WON'T?" Oh, but there is more. My gracious neighbor, Melanie, took care of Ruby while we were in Myanmar. Once Ruby ran out her front door and began barking at another neighbor. It was a bad scene. Lots of screams. Ruby was whisked back inside and poor Melanie had to spend time performing on-the-fly PTSD therapy. The neighbor wanted to know "why Ruby hates humans." Melanie had to explain that Ruby does not hate humans and that she was a nice dog who was simply doing her job of defending the house.
I think their negative reaction is amplified by Ruby's, um, vocality. Those who know Ruby know she is 8 pounds of solid vocal chord, though she reserves her barking mostly for cats, birds, squirrels and sometimes other dogs. She loves people and she loves children. She'll bark at unknown men when she is around children as a way of protecting the children. She's sweet as can be. She might be barking, but usually her tail is wagging so hard she barely walk. Chinese dogs, on the other hand, don't bark. I let you ponder this. They are also incredibly street smart. Reminds me of Chinese children: they don't seem to cry much and they play in/next to busy streets, but I'm digressing again. I can come up with a few possible reasons why dogs are mum. It's so strange to me to not hear dogs. That's kind of the point of a dog, to bark. Warn their masters of danger, intruders or alert them to prey.
It's not just Senorita Yapcita who incurrs the wrath of the ren. There seems to be an anti-dog movement fomenting all over the People's Republic. Our apartment complex recently posted signs "outlawing" large and vicious dogs. The irony was that Park Avenue management mailed letters and printed signs with a Golden Retriever posing as the large viscous dog. I read in China Daily that many cities are outlawing dogs over 20 pounds. The data did not cite an uptick in dog bites or attacks or any reasoning for the new laws. Probably just some bored cadre with a bone to pick. The biggest shock to me was that the people in defacto violation of the new dog laws who were interviewed gracefully agreed to move or give up their dogs. I can't see that happening in America.
Alas, Ruby will not be a gateway to true and lasting friendships with the Chinese people. (Nor will my screaming at taxi drivers.) But she's a true Sheppard, our no-nonsense, don't mess with my territory, can-do American dog. And we love her.
More news that might go against everything you thought you knew about the Chinese: not all Chinese are 5 feet 3 inches tall on their tippy toes. Yao Ming is Beijing ren (folk) and he is in the company of giants. Northern China was repeatedly invaded by the the Mongols in the North. The Mongols were some tall-ass, fierce, horse-riding raiders that rendered the Great Wall the greatest defensive joke in the history of mankind. (Note to self: you could get jailed/killed for writing negative words about The People's Wall.) Over time the Mongols, you know, "mingled" with the Han Chinese and presto, my own 5 foot 9 stature is blaise.
After traveling to Hong Kong and the southernmost island of Hainan, I can tell you that the Beijingers don't have the monopoly on tall. Chinese everywhere are getting taller; nature naturally selects for the tall gene. The size difference between generations here is startling. The Mao generation as I call them--anyone over the age of 50, and especially those in their seventies and older are so tiny they sometimes seem like sweet dolls. You want to give them a hug for having endured hardship for so long, but don't be fooled by little grannie: she's a tiger backed up to a cliff holding eight cubs by their scruff. She will beat you with her purse to get on the bus; she will push you right off a curb rather than go around; she will steal a balloon from your child and give it to her own grandchild. (All three examples are true stories.)
Gen Y and Z and whatever the hell those really young people running around are called have deeper pockets and fuller plates, and the Chinese diet has changed tremendously in the past 5 years. Five times more meat is consumed per capita today than in 2007. Milk and yogurt are marketed as heavily as the iPhone. Based on my own count, there are more brands of yogurt in China than in America.
So back to the topic of dogs. The good news is that our fiesty little dachshund Ruby is not in danger of being eaten in Beijing. Ducks, bunnies and pot-belly pigs are all fair game, but dog is not on our neighbor's menu.
Having Ruby here with us has certainly colored our Chinese experience. I've found you can learn a lot about people through your dog. I think back to one of our neighbors in Seattle who does not know my name or my children's names. She never even looked at me, but would have lengthy conversations with Ruby, petting and plying her with treats.
Dog culture is new in China. Dogs themselves are obviously not new to the region. According to the Chinese, everything originates from China, dogs being no exception. I'm talking about a pampered pooch culture where the family dog is just that: family. An often over-the-top animal worship (uh, health care plans for your guinea pig anyone?) you only find in America and Europe.
Within the last 5 years, the very rich and mostly single Chinese crowd have begun adopting the pet-as-family modus operandi. In this socioeconomic division, dogs are a form of personal expression as well as a four-legged fashion show. I see dogs wearing everything from designer jeans (with poop flaps) to shoes. In warmer weather the shoes come off to reveal painted dogie toe nails. There are a surprising number of stores dedicated to dog fashion. I am told that in Shanghai people parade their pooches in special strollers to avoid dirty paws. What's the point of giving your dog a walk?
Outside of this affluent bubble, the Chinese mostly dislike or distrust dogs, perhaps viewing them as competition for food and disease carriers. Nobody seems to mind that they are terrific organic-waste generators. Nobody scoops poop, excepting myself and the maybe five other Americans here. Dog poop is fine, dogs are not. Most Chinese are terrified of dogs, even Ruby--especially Ruby, our 8-pound, yap-tastic diva.
The Chinese in our building will not get on the elevator if I have Ruby with me. We live on the 28th floor and she has a tiny bladder--that's a lot of lonely elevator rides. Sometimes I can cajole my Park Ave neighbors into the lift by re-assuring them Ruby is hen hao (very good) and she doesn't bite. Other times the elevator doors close and I descend alone, still feeling the glare of angry eyes.
Stink eye is the least of my woes; multiple children have kicked Ruby. (In America, kids swarm her with love and I have trouble freeing her up for a walk!) I've had Chinese parents/grandsparents shout at me for letting Ruby near their child, even though she is on a leash and usually wagging her tail. I've had two delivery personnel refuse to come near our door because I was holding Ruby. I even had to cage Ruby before our utilities key-card recharger (yes, that is actually a job in China. We pay someone to insert a card into our meters when we run out of utilities) would enter the house. She was crying and shaking in fear while I'm thinking: "How do you survive a door-to-door job? I KNOW I am not the only one in these buildings with a dog, but please sack-up and recharge my fucking meter because I have no water! "
SHE'S 8 POUNDS FOR CHRISSAKE! WHAT COULD SHE POSSIBLY DO TO YOU THAT THE POLLUTED AIR, TOXIC FOOD AND THE DANGEROUS ROADS WON'T?" Oh, but there is more. My gracious neighbor, Melanie, took care of Ruby while we were in Myanmar. Once Ruby ran out her front door and began barking at another neighbor. It was a bad scene. Lots of screams. Ruby was whisked back inside and poor Melanie had to spend time performing on-the-fly PTSD therapy. The neighbor wanted to know "why Ruby hates humans." Melanie had to explain that Ruby does not hate humans and that she was a nice dog who was simply doing her job of defending the house.
I think their negative reaction is amplified by Ruby's, um, vocality. Those who know Ruby know she is 8 pounds of solid vocal chord, though she reserves her barking mostly for cats, birds, squirrels and sometimes other dogs. She loves people and she loves children. She'll bark at unknown men when she is around children as a way of protecting the children. She's sweet as can be. She might be barking, but usually her tail is wagging so hard she barely walk. Chinese dogs, on the other hand, don't bark. I let you ponder this. They are also incredibly street smart. Reminds me of Chinese children: they don't seem to cry much and they play in/next to busy streets, but I'm digressing again. I can come up with a few possible reasons why dogs are mum. It's so strange to me to not hear dogs. That's kind of the point of a dog, to bark. Warn their masters of danger, intruders or alert them to prey.
It's not just Senorita Yapcita who incurrs the wrath of the ren. There seems to be an anti-dog movement fomenting all over the People's Republic. Our apartment complex recently posted signs "outlawing" large and vicious dogs. The irony was that Park Avenue management mailed letters and printed signs with a Golden Retriever posing as the large viscous dog. I read in China Daily that many cities are outlawing dogs over 20 pounds. The data did not cite an uptick in dog bites or attacks or any reasoning for the new laws. Probably just some bored cadre with a bone to pick. The biggest shock to me was that the people in defacto violation of the new dog laws who were interviewed gracefully agreed to move or give up their dogs. I can't see that happening in America.
Alas, Ruby will not be a gateway to true and lasting friendships with the Chinese people. (Nor will my screaming at taxi drivers.) But she's a true Sheppard, our no-nonsense, don't mess with my territory, can-do American dog. And we love her.
Sunday, January 15, 2012
Three Thousand Miles, Three Thousand Dollars, Questionable Profilactics.
It’s two weeks before our Burma departure and I am feeling pleased with myself that I managed to get the whole family in to the International SOS Medical Clinic in Beijing for our jungle disease shots. Small things equal large victories in China.
I should have gotten us all vaccinated for Typhoid in the States, I know I should have. And I should have gotten that scrip filled for the Malaria pills. It’s just that I was so busy getting the boys all caught up on their standard shots and squeezing every last drop of blood from my veins to hand over to the Chinese Government. To obtain a Chinese Residence Visa, you have to provide 8 different blood samples, plus lung x-rays and electrocardiograms. Mr. Honorable Lee/Zhang/Chen*, National Hero of the People and Director of Immigration Health Services wants to know if we, The Sheppards, are dying of gonorrhea, the Plague, Black Lung Disease and/or if we have beating hearts. The Plague? The last time the Plague constituted a public health crisis was back in the Middle Ages—Monty Python wouldn’t lie! Besides, if I had contracted the Plague, I am pretty darn sure it would not have been in the United States. Black Lung? We're working on it.
Between the 12 separate doctors appointments, lab visits, follow-up lab visits, (*the author notes: thank God we are healthy, this temporary inconvenience is the nightmarish reality for those with ailing health*), the packing and showing our house, getting the boys enrolled in an international school, farewell drinking with friends, etc. etc. etc. I just could not make that last appointment. Plus, we were assured in August that SOS could provide all international travelers vaccinations if and when we need them.
So it was with some shock that Dr. John of SOS told us Tuesday afternoon that no International Clinic could legally give us vaccines for typhoid or Malaria prophylactics. Now, Dr. John seemed like a very nice guy but my mind kept skipping to that nebulous word “legally.” Uh-huh, “So could you give them to us illegally?” I asked. Plenty of things are illegal in China--hawking loogies, booting people from taxis because you don’t want to drive them to their destination, driving in reverse on freeway ramps--though I have yet to see the police ticket anyone for anything. Beijing police prefer to hang out in large groups and play mahjong or basketball, letting the police officer mannequins and ubiquitous signs of busty female po-pos with anime eyes keep the populace honest.
I was still unfazed, sure that I could get coverage in another hospital or clinic that was less concerned or unaware of the law du jour. There had to be reserves of Malarone, the only effective anti-malarial safe for children under 8, lurking on some pharmacy shelf.
I was wrong. Mr. Lee/Zhang/Chen Supreme Overlord of World Health decided in a apoplectic, baijou-inspired (baijou is Chinese hard liquor) moment of great national pride that only vaccines manufactured in China would be made available to the people. The problem is that there are many vaccines/pills that are not made in China. Or demand outpaces supply. Plus I’m told to never trust a vaccine made in China.
Whatever the reason, we still have no inoculation against typhoid or Malaria. I email our travel agent in Burma, Mr. Tin Hun. Surely he will be able to have some ready for us upon arrival. Burma is rife with typhoid and a high-risk malaria country. Wrong again. Mr. Tin Hun had never heard of Malarone (or it’s chemical equivalent), nor had the doctors he supposedly consulted. And typhoid: “typhoid is not a problem here.” Never mind what the CDC, embassies and travelers say. Right. What am I thinking asking these questions in the most closed regime in the world?
I’m trying to keep calm. I am trying to rationalize why we really don’t need to take these precautions: they are only 80% effective anyway, they have side effects, we will only be there 10 days, I will slather the boys with liver-slaying DEET, we won't eat street food, we will only drink bottled water. I'm no stranger to rationalizing our way out of vaccines. Six years ago, I made a conscience decision to forgo some modern-day pediatric vaccines—chicken pox, hep B, etc. I also spaced out the boys' vaccines, never getting more than 2 at a time, making darn sure we were non-complaint with every preschool and school they attended.
I consult the Internet-- let medical research be my guide! Bad idea. I discover that Myanmar has the worst kind of Malaria with a 10% death rate. I discover that if you survive the brain-melting fever, you can die of starvation. I think of my boys, especially Finn, who have zero body fat reserves dying of starvation. I discover that Typhoid is the worst form of Salmonella. I got the "best" form of Salmonella in Ecuador and it took my digestive tract 6 years to recover.
Full-blown panic rears up and I put in THE CALL to Austin. Austin fears THE CALL more than he fears being torn to shreds by a pit bull. He knows it's THE CALL when can’t even finish saying “hello?” before the verbal assault begins.
Austin: :Hel-"
Me: “I’m canceling Burma!!!!!!”
Austin: "Huh?"
Me:"Can't we jut go to Australia *SOB*"
Austin: "Huh?"
Me:"It would be totally irresponsible to go. Finn will die of starvation!!!!!!!!"
Austin: "Huh?"
Me: "I'm canceling!!!!!"
Austin: "Huh?????"
Me: "Then you go and die of Typhoid!" HANGS UP.
Austin: "Huh?"
Four hours later the phone rings. I am huddled on the couch, miserable because we are not going to Burma and we are $4,000 down all because of Mr. Lee/Zhang/Chen has a hard-on for Chinese-made vaccines.
It's Austin. "I've booked flights to Hong Kong. You and the boys are going tomorrow. Get packing."
Me: "But, but but....."
Austin: "Get packing. Click."
Yes, so let me make this clear for ya'all: We have to fly to Hong Kong, China to get vaccines that are not allowed in China. China is not China, unless it's China. We will have to make a third appointment with a doctor to get our jungle vaccines. Hong Kong is 1,400 miles south of Beijing. Hong Kong ain't cheap. I cost us a good $4,000 dollars to get us our questionable prophylactics, but in the end we were lucky/rich enough to get them, which is more than I can say for the millions of people living in disease-rife countries who do not have access to health care. Alas, the topic of world health I must save for another blog, another career, another life.
The upside: Hong Kong was one helluva an adventure!
*I read that 60% of the Chinese population has the last name of Lee, Zhang or Chen. The top 10 surnames cover 90% of the population.
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