. Thousands upon thousands of tourists gathered to enjoy the last warm days of Autumn at the Great Wall!
*
12.10.08
29.9.08
China's Rich Orphans
Growing up in Australian suburbia, we all had the inking the Asian education ethic was a far cry from the lame aspirations of underachievement dogging the average Aussie. What this inkling didn’t even nearly give us, was the full picture of educational expectations in China. As it turns out, Chinese-Australians were pretty laid back compared to Chinese from China.
Schooling in China starts as early as two. By schooling, I do not mean day-care or finger-painting, nor do I mean an hour-and-a-half in a sandpit with other toddlers, and an adoring parent waving at you lovingly from outside the kindy gate. Entrance for two year olds into China’s most prestigious pre-schools requires a hefty round of testing and the submission of a resume listing talents and achievements. These ‘achievements’ do not include obvious toddler triumphs, such as being potty-trained or weaned from a mother’s tit, but glorious musical, linguistic and athletic feats.
For many toddlers, acceptance into these prestigious schools also marks the start of boarding school. At boarding school, these small children are expected to shower, feed and dress themselves, attend full days of schooling, and show their filial gratitude by achieving highly. Many a sympathetic teacher has been known to complete the tasks themselves, before drilling the toddlers with the question and answer: “Who did this?” – “I did this!” “Who did this?” – “I did this!”
For many, being a good parent in China means providing the most expensive and prestigious education available, and pressuring your child to over-achieve. As judgemental as it may sound, I think it is wrong, senseless, and detrimental to any child’s wellbeing. Children should be with their parents. There are thousands of ways to bring up healthy, happy and intelligent children, and this is not one of them.
*
Home or Away
After ten raging years of hostel-hopping and share-housing, the idea of “home” has become no more than the few familiar trinkets I drag around with me, and the déjà vu of nine repeated stays in buildings like Hong Kong’s Chungking Mansions. My post-modern nomadic lifestyle has found me renting in excess of fifteen different share-houses across six countries, traversing the hostels of another twenty, and spending long extended months on grimy couches.
In fact, it had been so long without central air-conditioning, functional household appliances, five cars for a family of five, a private patch of grass, and an unobtrusive place to hang my washing, even the idea of a month with my parents, in a remote corner of Australian suburbia had me on edge. Of course my edginess could always be offset by moments of rosy nostalgia for the obvious benefits – no roaches, no voyeuristic landlords, no construction sites, and no acid rain … just sunny arvos filled with warbling magpies and puffy clouds.
The reality of these wonderful arvos though, is they give you a lot of time to obsess about things like allergies to gluten, and which sacred Indian cow gave you tapeworm. And as these worries subside the mind tends to fill with delightful childhood memories like playing lesbian Perfect Match with Barbie (because Ken was ever-absent), or writing long heart-wrenching Dear Diary entries delineating the complexities of being eleven, which would later be used as performance pieces by my brother to entertain other small, snotty children.
After a decade outside the shelter of the family, I can now affirm not having a Ken doll and being mocked by a group of eight year olds are fairly minor household challenges. Living jacked between two major inner-city freeways, with a nutcase who leaves chocolate bunny-face croissants outside your room by day, and writes disparaging classifieds in your name by night is much more testing. As is room-sharing with a girl who has a penchant for Celine Dion ballads (in Italian), and who wants you to make decisions based on her mother’s communication with a dead saint.
My return to the familial home though has been most marked by the reminder that cleaning doesn’t have to be democratic. There actually isn’t a need for individual dirty-dish stacking stations, and it is only a dull egalitarianism that gives everyone an equal right not to scrub the toilet. My parents’ extreme cleanliness has also successfully expelled all of life’s murky bits and hidden skeletons. There are no algae infested pools with feral ducks, no family heirlooms inherited from the Argentine dictator Juan Manuel de Rosas, and no horror film obsessed Alzheimer’s patients locked up in back studies.
Despite pushing on thirty and feeling the world has changed me, I’m discovering that under my parent’s roof, I inevitably suffer from a compulsive, reactionary eating disorder, which I like to blame on everyone else’s weird carb-free, lactose-free, organic diets. The eating also dampens the effects of my mother’s regret-filled diatribes about bringing up strong-willed, independent children. Because now, instead of being settled into a life in suburbia (around the corner from her), and willingly popping out her third grandchild, I only crave the return to my anonymous and clandestine existence in the heart of China.
*
In fact, it had been so long without central air-conditioning, functional household appliances, five cars for a family of five, a private patch of grass, and an unobtrusive place to hang my washing, even the idea of a month with my parents, in a remote corner of Australian suburbia had me on edge. Of course my edginess could always be offset by moments of rosy nostalgia for the obvious benefits – no roaches, no voyeuristic landlords, no construction sites, and no acid rain … just sunny arvos filled with warbling magpies and puffy clouds.
The reality of these wonderful arvos though, is they give you a lot of time to obsess about things like allergies to gluten, and which sacred Indian cow gave you tapeworm. And as these worries subside the mind tends to fill with delightful childhood memories like playing lesbian Perfect Match with Barbie (because Ken was ever-absent), or writing long heart-wrenching Dear Diary entries delineating the complexities of being eleven, which would later be used as performance pieces by my brother to entertain other small, snotty children.
After a decade outside the shelter of the family, I can now affirm not having a Ken doll and being mocked by a group of eight year olds are fairly minor household challenges. Living jacked between two major inner-city freeways, with a nutcase who leaves chocolate bunny-face croissants outside your room by day, and writes disparaging classifieds in your name by night is much more testing. As is room-sharing with a girl who has a penchant for Celine Dion ballads (in Italian), and who wants you to make decisions based on her mother’s communication with a dead saint.
My return to the familial home though has been most marked by the reminder that cleaning doesn’t have to be democratic. There actually isn’t a need for individual dirty-dish stacking stations, and it is only a dull egalitarianism that gives everyone an equal right not to scrub the toilet. My parents’ extreme cleanliness has also successfully expelled all of life’s murky bits and hidden skeletons. There are no algae infested pools with feral ducks, no family heirlooms inherited from the Argentine dictator Juan Manuel de Rosas, and no horror film obsessed Alzheimer’s patients locked up in back studies.
Despite pushing on thirty and feeling the world has changed me, I’m discovering that under my parent’s roof, I inevitably suffer from a compulsive, reactionary eating disorder, which I like to blame on everyone else’s weird carb-free, lactose-free, organic diets. The eating also dampens the effects of my mother’s regret-filled diatribes about bringing up strong-willed, independent children. Because now, instead of being settled into a life in suburbia (around the corner from her), and willingly popping out her third grandchild, I only crave the return to my anonymous and clandestine existence in the heart of China.
*
17.9.08
The Shallow Roots
"The starting point of all critical elaboration is the consciousness of what one really is, and in 'knowing thyself' as a product of the historical process to date, which has deposited in you an infinity of traces, without leaving an inventory. Therefore, it is imperative at the outset to compile such an inventory." - Gramsci, The Prison Notebooks
Several years ago I began to travel. The will to uncover the parts of myself that I could not yet see, and the parts of myself that I did not know, has always been my most basic driving force. A force that manifests as the will to compile (within my consciousness) something similar to Gramsci's 'inventory.' This intent for knowledge and clarity has taken me back to numerous cross-overs in both the Occident and the Orient.
I have wandered from continent to continent, leaving my mind open to the consequences of irreversible change. As much joy as there has been, there has been disappointment. In China, I have been struck by an immense sadness, because there is a nothingness about wandering the streets of a civilization that has severed its ancient roots, and negated thousands of years of thought. The tree that grows here now has shallow roots that cling to the empty dream of modelling and then transcending its "western" other (the Olympics were this kind of display).
So I ask the question, how are those of us with historical roots in both Orient and Occident supposed to see clearly and know ourselves, when half of our civilizations are in demise, and our histories have been overwritten? Is it natural to accept that as our civilizations have been conquered, parts of ourselves have also been conquered? And how do we reconcile this defeat and submission, when the Occident has always rejected us, because of our embodiment or traces of the conquered?
Too easily the noveau-Occidentals jump up to speak for all, in their declarations of: race doesn't exist, colour doesn't exist, we are all the same, we constructed it all ... But who is this "we?" For centuries this "we" has been the greatest conquerer of all; the great construct to obliterate diversity. It has been this "we," with its colonial conquests, wars and genocides, that has left deep scars in the psyches of many peoples around the world, not just those in the Orient.
For every "Oriental other" that constructs him/herself in the image of the Occident, one more tiny thread is cut. The underwriting is clear: "It is true what you say, we are all the same (now). We are the same, because I have ceased to exist, my culture does not exist, and together we have obliterated my history, and filed it into a department of your history. My skin may be a different colour, but I am no longer recognizable as your "other" (bar a few shadows in my eyes), because I am no longer what I was. I am as close to being you, and your own brother. Yes, we are the same, because I do not remember, and there is no way for me to know."
*
Several years ago I began to travel. The will to uncover the parts of myself that I could not yet see, and the parts of myself that I did not know, has always been my most basic driving force. A force that manifests as the will to compile (within my consciousness) something similar to Gramsci's 'inventory.' This intent for knowledge and clarity has taken me back to numerous cross-overs in both the Occident and the Orient.
I have wandered from continent to continent, leaving my mind open to the consequences of irreversible change. As much joy as there has been, there has been disappointment. In China, I have been struck by an immense sadness, because there is a nothingness about wandering the streets of a civilization that has severed its ancient roots, and negated thousands of years of thought. The tree that grows here now has shallow roots that cling to the empty dream of modelling and then transcending its "western" other (the Olympics were this kind of display).
So I ask the question, how are those of us with historical roots in both Orient and Occident supposed to see clearly and know ourselves, when half of our civilizations are in demise, and our histories have been overwritten? Is it natural to accept that as our civilizations have been conquered, parts of ourselves have also been conquered? And how do we reconcile this defeat and submission, when the Occident has always rejected us, because of our embodiment or traces of the conquered?
Too easily the noveau-Occidentals jump up to speak for all, in their declarations of: race doesn't exist, colour doesn't exist, we are all the same, we constructed it all ... But who is this "we?" For centuries this "we" has been the greatest conquerer of all; the great construct to obliterate diversity. It has been this "we," with its colonial conquests, wars and genocides, that has left deep scars in the psyches of many peoples around the world, not just those in the Orient.
For every "Oriental other" that constructs him/herself in the image of the Occident, one more tiny thread is cut. The underwriting is clear: "It is true what you say, we are all the same (now). We are the same, because I have ceased to exist, my culture does not exist, and together we have obliterated my history, and filed it into a department of your history. My skin may be a different colour, but I am no longer recognizable as your "other" (bar a few shadows in my eyes), because I am no longer what I was. I am as close to being you, and your own brother. Yes, we are the same, because I do not remember, and there is no way for me to know."
*
16.9.08
12.9.08
11.9.08
On Harmony and Human Rights
In 1968 the United Nations General Assembly approved two conventions on Human Rights that expanded upon the Universal Declaration of Human Rights: the International Convenant on Political and Civil Rights, and the International Convenant on Economic, Social and Cultural Rights.
In regards to these two convenants, we can jusifiably conclude that the boxing rounds between these two powerhouses about human rights do not actually include any agreement about the nature of human rights. The US accuses China of being an authoritarian state impinging on people's civil and political rights, and China, in turn, accuses the US of being a 'violent, crime-ridden society' that 'does not guarantee the personal safety' of its citizens.
All this aside, I can't help but notice that despite China's aggressive claims to the protection and advancement of human rights, a soft underbelly of uncertainty belies the public consciousness. I dug a knife into this underbelly earlier this week, when I messaged my editor, proposing the inclusion of a unit on human rights in a series of high school textbooks that I'm writing. Her response was all too clear: "Harmony, and One World, One Dream. Thanks."
It comes as no surprise that China did not ratify the Convenant on Political and Civil Rights, but for some, it may come as suprise that the world's grand and booming orator on human rights, the United States, did not ratify the Convenant on Economic, Social and Cultural Rights. China however, in line with the majority of developing nations, did ratify this second Convenant. Regardless of my personal opinion, I think it is perfectly logical that a nation as large as China, with China's history, insists that the right to develop and the right to subsist be prioritized over individual rights.
In regards to these two convenants, we can jusifiably conclude that the boxing rounds between these two powerhouses about human rights do not actually include any agreement about the nature of human rights. The US accuses China of being an authoritarian state impinging on people's civil and political rights, and China, in turn, accuses the US of being a 'violent, crime-ridden society' that 'does not guarantee the personal safety' of its citizens.
Articulating the Chinese understanding of human rights, also sheds light on the logic of a billion Chinese standing up to say: "China brought human rights and freedom to Tibet, a feudal nation wallowing in poverty and slavery." What remains doubtful of course, even within China's own mindset of human rights, is just how China has brought 'cultural rights' to the Tibetan state.
All this aside, I can't help but notice that despite China's aggressive claims to the protection and advancement of human rights, a soft underbelly of uncertainty belies the public consciousness. I dug a knife into this underbelly earlier this week, when I messaged my editor, proposing the inclusion of a unit on human rights in a series of high school textbooks that I'm writing. Her response was all too clear: "Harmony, and One World, One Dream. Thanks."
Reference: Ching, Frank, China: The Truth about its Human Rights Record, Random House, Great Britain, 2008.
*
2.9.08
The Great Unfinished Nation!
Unlike China, Australia is a great nation of home-finishings; all the windows have fly-screens, all the toilets flush, and there are no coils of electrical wires dangling into the street. One of the main reasons I left Australia was the exorbitant prices of home repairs, and the social pressure to invest in quality interior infrastructure. What attracted me to China was the promise that anyone could be a plumber, electrician or outfitter. After all, I thought, how hard can it be to smash a hole in the window with a hammer and run a television cable into your apartment?
When we first moved to the Jing, we found ourselves tossing up between living in a sunny mezzanine and our Cave at Sanlitun. The way I saw it, the mezzanine had yellow silk curtains that shimmered in the breeze, and a private roof-top enclave, where I envisioned reclining on over-stuffed cushions amongst twisted vines and smoking apple-flavoured tobacco from my hookah. The deciding factor for my more earthy partner however, was that the landlord of the mezzanine insisted his renovations were finished.
To side with my partner, I will concede that the mezzanine was littered with empty paint tins and wood shavings, and there were large holes covered by pieces of cardboard in the second-story floor. It also had a suspiciously wobbly balustrade, windows that wouldn’t lock or close, a toilet pipe that pointed in the wrong direction for effective flushing, and no hot water in the kitchen. In turn, the Cave at Sanlitun does have polished wooden floors, non-fluorescent light-fittings, hot water pressure, windows that close, and enough heaters to survive the winter.
As the months have passed however, the absences of light and yellow silk curtains have caused the small imperfections of the Cave to encroach on my state of well-being. The tiny gaps in the walls and screens have paved the way for many a curious roach, and our midsummer night dreams are filled with the operatic whine of mosquitoes. I also fear that between repairing the door handles and trying to contain a rebellious shower-curtain rod, I’ve neglected our rock in the bathroom drain, leaving it subject to asphyxiation by hairballs and grey mush.
It is possible that my unwillingness to fork out an extra couple of grand a month may be the root of all my problems, but I keep returning to the nagging thought that this lack of finesse goes deeper. After all, my friend pays twice the rent I do, and all the tiles in his newly refurbished bathroom dislodged from the walls a couple of months after he moved in; and the luxurious multi-million dollar ‘gold’ mall in the Village at Sanlitun has sewerage pipes sticking out of its exterior.
When it all gets too much, I just remind myself why I came here in the first place. I now have nearly three years of practical plumbing and electrical experience, which puts me in good stead to get an apprenticeship when I go back home. After all, what other Australian can unblock a drain with a pair of chopsticks!
When we first moved to the Jing, we found ourselves tossing up between living in a sunny mezzanine and our Cave at Sanlitun. The way I saw it, the mezzanine had yellow silk curtains that shimmered in the breeze, and a private roof-top enclave, where I envisioned reclining on over-stuffed cushions amongst twisted vines and smoking apple-flavoured tobacco from my hookah. The deciding factor for my more earthy partner however, was that the landlord of the mezzanine insisted his renovations were finished.
To side with my partner, I will concede that the mezzanine was littered with empty paint tins and wood shavings, and there were large holes covered by pieces of cardboard in the second-story floor. It also had a suspiciously wobbly balustrade, windows that wouldn’t lock or close, a toilet pipe that pointed in the wrong direction for effective flushing, and no hot water in the kitchen. In turn, the Cave at Sanlitun does have polished wooden floors, non-fluorescent light-fittings, hot water pressure, windows that close, and enough heaters to survive the winter.
As the months have passed however, the absences of light and yellow silk curtains have caused the small imperfections of the Cave to encroach on my state of well-being. The tiny gaps in the walls and screens have paved the way for many a curious roach, and our midsummer night dreams are filled with the operatic whine of mosquitoes. I also fear that between repairing the door handles and trying to contain a rebellious shower-curtain rod, I’ve neglected our rock in the bathroom drain, leaving it subject to asphyxiation by hairballs and grey mush.
It is possible that my unwillingness to fork out an extra couple of grand a month may be the root of all my problems, but I keep returning to the nagging thought that this lack of finesse goes deeper. After all, my friend pays twice the rent I do, and all the tiles in his newly refurbished bathroom dislodged from the walls a couple of months after he moved in; and the luxurious multi-million dollar ‘gold’ mall in the Village at Sanlitun has sewerage pipes sticking out of its exterior.
When it all gets too much, I just remind myself why I came here in the first place. I now have nearly three years of practical plumbing and electrical experience, which puts me in good stead to get an apprenticeship when I go back home. After all, what other Australian can unblock a drain with a pair of chopsticks!
1.9.08
Love Behind the Forbidden City
On Sunday afternoons one can find swarms of tourists in central Beijing with their fancy cameras, elbowing each other out of the way for one of the cities most famous shots: The Forbidden City Reflected.Across the Forbidden City's moat in Zhongshan Park there is a lesser known swarm of eager, elbowing bidders. Hundreds of parents mill about swapping photographs and details of their marriageable sons and daughters: Sunday's market of arranged marriages!
Hundreds of photocopied sheets change hands, detailing everything from age to education, star sign to expectations. There are even the extra pushy mothers who instruct other hopefuls that they shouldn't come without being well equipped with up-to-date portraits of the prospective brides and grooms!
If I'm unable to hook myself a husband by age 35, I know where I'm sending my mother!
30.7.08
A Lament to Industrial Relations
The Chinese penchant for a life at work is best described as diametrically opposed to the Australian spirit. As such, I spent my first nine months in Asia chanting anti-work mantras such as: Hey ho, hey ho, the six-day week has got to go! and One, two, three, four, 5 pm I’m out the door!
Time wore me down however and culled my protests. My final resignation came after realizing no one else had time for friendships or walks in the park, and discovering there was something debasing about playing Scrabble alone, and having only a few passing roaches to chuckle at my witty dialogue. So, after two years of feeble resistance and long working hours, I woke one day finally cured of my disabling Australian work ethic. After all, who has time to reflect on their national identity, when all they do is work?
In addition to becoming a confirmed workaholic, China has taught me to avoid facing problems, smile sweetly, and swallow at least a few bitter pills. Still, being the slow learner that I am, it has taken over 3000 hours of social psychological conditioning in private language institutes for me to really come to terms with my deficiencies as an employee. To think, I once foolishly believed in paid holidays, honest appraisals, and education before profit!
Yet, despite all my progress, I still feel this laid-back, bush-whacking alter-ego lurking just beneath the surface. An alter-ego that sometimes just wants to yell out: fair go mate! Especially when it receives that kind of email that starts: NOTICE: the teaching department will eliminate 10 teachers at the beginning of February! To be honest, that alter-ego is sometimes so overbearing I fear it’s actually a genetic disorder that induces outbursts of working-class pride.
As a result of my crippling precondition, I have found myself at odds over a renewal contract in my company. It seems my disorder has blinded me to the rewards hidden behind signing a contract that demands: the Employee must consider the benefits of the Company as priority, and obey all the Company’s policies.
Despite the director’s kind attempts to push me in the right direction, I still feel a strain of rebellion coursing through my veins. A strain that multiplies each time I focus on any of its 654 supporting clauses – the teacher has no right to refuse working overtime; days taken as sick leave or for national holidays should be made up at the company’s discretion, quitting mid-contract will incur a fine of RMB 50,000 …
Fortunately, the director of my school is an attentive and reasonable man, who was willing to take a few hours out of his busy schedule to reveal the flaws in my logic. He may have even convinced me, had I not previously been genetically-coded into believing a contract should be binding, fair and lawful, and that clauses included for the sole purpose of scaring employees are actually redundant. Still, every day the voices in my head get louder: one, two, three, four, please don’t think and work some more!
*
Time wore me down however and culled my protests. My final resignation came after realizing no one else had time for friendships or walks in the park, and discovering there was something debasing about playing Scrabble alone, and having only a few passing roaches to chuckle at my witty dialogue. So, after two years of feeble resistance and long working hours, I woke one day finally cured of my disabling Australian work ethic. After all, who has time to reflect on their national identity, when all they do is work?
In addition to becoming a confirmed workaholic, China has taught me to avoid facing problems, smile sweetly, and swallow at least a few bitter pills. Still, being the slow learner that I am, it has taken over 3000 hours of social psychological conditioning in private language institutes for me to really come to terms with my deficiencies as an employee. To think, I once foolishly believed in paid holidays, honest appraisals, and education before profit!
Yet, despite all my progress, I still feel this laid-back, bush-whacking alter-ego lurking just beneath the surface. An alter-ego that sometimes just wants to yell out: fair go mate! Especially when it receives that kind of email that starts: NOTICE: the teaching department will eliminate 10 teachers at the beginning of February! To be honest, that alter-ego is sometimes so overbearing I fear it’s actually a genetic disorder that induces outbursts of working-class pride.
As a result of my crippling precondition, I have found myself at odds over a renewal contract in my company. It seems my disorder has blinded me to the rewards hidden behind signing a contract that demands: the Employee must consider the benefits of the Company as priority, and obey all the Company’s policies.
Despite the director’s kind attempts to push me in the right direction, I still feel a strain of rebellion coursing through my veins. A strain that multiplies each time I focus on any of its 654 supporting clauses – the teacher has no right to refuse working overtime; days taken as sick leave or for national holidays should be made up at the company’s discretion, quitting mid-contract will incur a fine of RMB 50,000 …
Fortunately, the director of my school is an attentive and reasonable man, who was willing to take a few hours out of his busy schedule to reveal the flaws in my logic. He may have even convinced me, had I not previously been genetically-coded into believing a contract should be binding, fair and lawful, and that clauses included for the sole purpose of scaring employees are actually redundant. Still, every day the voices in my head get louder: one, two, three, four, please don’t think and work some more!
*
12.7.08
Escape Plan 22
After exactly eight months and six days of wall-sharing with Li Jie, our capricious landlord, she has finally broken the Dromedary’s back.
The stand-out moments have been accosting her camera after we caught her taking photos through our windows, catching her red-handed with our slippers, rice-cooker, and Christmas wreath, and coercing her assistance to obtain a registry of residence, after she went into hiding for a week and then attempted to escape through the back of the police station. To the credit of Li Jie, she did successfully steal our red paper fu, cut off our Internet and run a free wire into her room, and win a nine-week battle to not give us a tax fapiao. Still in dispute is whether we will start paying the rent six weeks instead of two weeks in advance, because according to Li Jie, contracts in China sometimes just change.
Needless to say, we have begun hatching a series of escape plans. Escape plan one was to move into the living quarters of my English college, and enjoy the tranquil backwaters of the airport. The dream glowed with the colours of summer days, barbecues by the pool, and the tranquil sounds of birds, frogs, and (admittedly) airplanes flying overhead every 12 minutes. In a deeper way it was charged with the desire to cut my commute, and have an extra three hours a day to sleep. However, after a short tour, my dream began slipping away. Reality would have found me living in a swampy, mosquito-infested room in a Rapunzel-ish tower, without ceiling lights. My diet would have come to depend on one restaurant, and my ‘three hours a day’ would have been spent hand-washing my clothes.
Escape plan two was to move into our friend’s empty, unfurnished apartment, and invest our rent money into jazzing it up. During this period my fantasies became domestically decadent, as I began to conjure up a soft, feathery mattress, and a washing-machine with a spin-cycle. After wooing our friend with the delights of a home-cooked meal and half a dozen beers, he regretfully told us that unfurnished meant no walls and no shower, and that should marriage befall him, he would be obliged to refurnish anyway, at the whim of his new wife.
We are now deeply embroiled in escape plan 22, which involves a seemingly endless wheeling and dealing tour of the suburbs with a 5i5j agent. The main reason we were trying to get around plan 22, was the exhausting memory of arriving in Beijing and being dragged for weeks through windowless, roach-infested apartments, and candy-pink rooms with plastic chandeliers. To throw another spanner in the works, the Olympic fervour has put dollar signs in every landlord’s eyes. Agents are hiking the prices, and landlords are asking double for August. The way I see it, I’m going to rent a place for two years, not two weeks, and with their asking prices, I couldn’t afford to go to the Olympics, even if I liked ribbon-twirling.
So, we find ourselves between a rock and a hard place – another three months of Li Jie, or coughing up the dough because a few hurdlers and acrobats are coming to town.
The stand-out moments have been accosting her camera after we caught her taking photos through our windows, catching her red-handed with our slippers, rice-cooker, and Christmas wreath, and coercing her assistance to obtain a registry of residence, after she went into hiding for a week and then attempted to escape through the back of the police station. To the credit of Li Jie, she did successfully steal our red paper fu, cut off our Internet and run a free wire into her room, and win a nine-week battle to not give us a tax fapiao. Still in dispute is whether we will start paying the rent six weeks instead of two weeks in advance, because according to Li Jie, contracts in China sometimes just change.
Needless to say, we have begun hatching a series of escape plans. Escape plan one was to move into the living quarters of my English college, and enjoy the tranquil backwaters of the airport. The dream glowed with the colours of summer days, barbecues by the pool, and the tranquil sounds of birds, frogs, and (admittedly) airplanes flying overhead every 12 minutes. In a deeper way it was charged with the desire to cut my commute, and have an extra three hours a day to sleep. However, after a short tour, my dream began slipping away. Reality would have found me living in a swampy, mosquito-infested room in a Rapunzel-ish tower, without ceiling lights. My diet would have come to depend on one restaurant, and my ‘three hours a day’ would have been spent hand-washing my clothes.
Escape plan two was to move into our friend’s empty, unfurnished apartment, and invest our rent money into jazzing it up. During this period my fantasies became domestically decadent, as I began to conjure up a soft, feathery mattress, and a washing-machine with a spin-cycle. After wooing our friend with the delights of a home-cooked meal and half a dozen beers, he regretfully told us that unfurnished meant no walls and no shower, and that should marriage befall him, he would be obliged to refurnish anyway, at the whim of his new wife.
We are now deeply embroiled in escape plan 22, which involves a seemingly endless wheeling and dealing tour of the suburbs with a 5i5j agent. The main reason we were trying to get around plan 22, was the exhausting memory of arriving in Beijing and being dragged for weeks through windowless, roach-infested apartments, and candy-pink rooms with plastic chandeliers. To throw another spanner in the works, the Olympic fervour has put dollar signs in every landlord’s eyes. Agents are hiking the prices, and landlords are asking double for August. The way I see it, I’m going to rent a place for two years, not two weeks, and with their asking prices, I couldn’t afford to go to the Olympics, even if I liked ribbon-twirling.
So, we find ourselves between a rock and a hard place – another three months of Li Jie, or coughing up the dough because a few hurdlers and acrobats are coming to town.
4.6.08
The Mark of Z: Becoming Legal in China
THIS ARTICLE WAS CENSORED FROM PUBLICATION IN BEIJING AFTER A WARNING (IN NO UNCERTAIN TERMS) TO NOT SPREAD RUMOURS ABOUT THE VISA SITUATION.
The visa renewal hysteria that has clutched the Jing’s expat community has taken the micro issues off the table. There’s been a lot less bitching about squat toilets or windy days, because the questions everyone wants answered are: “how do I get a Z-visa?” and “what will happen to my life if I’m expelled from China?”
The visa renewal hysteria that has clutched the Jing’s expat community has taken the micro issues off the table. There’s been a lot less bitching about squat toilets or windy days, because the questions everyone wants answered are: “how do I get a Z-visa?” and “what will happen to my life if I’m expelled from China?”
Feeling that an end to my semi-illegal, F-L-X-C visa-running lifestyle was drawing near, I decided to go straight in for the Z. Unfortunately, the Z came with a whole plethora of painful clauses: the full-time job, the company contract, the visa-run, the Foreign Expert Certificate, the ‘6-month-too-late’ Registry of Residence, the health check, and the endless gathering of fapiaos. In a neat list it all looks so manageable, but the reality was a labyrinth of dead-ends, delays, grey areas, suspicious-looking papers, negotiations with police officers and bureaucrats, and various attempts to elicit cooperation from my less-than-stable landlord.
The first step to the Z was rising above the quagmire of hysteria-filled forums that overflow with visa rejection cases, and accepting that the ease of the HK visa-run was gone for a while. The message from the Chinese Consulate in Hong Kong was pretty clear: you’re welcome in China, but you’re not welcome to apply for a visa. My company’s generous US$800 visa-run travel allowance had started looking less generous when they said Hong Kong was out, but Tokyo, Bangkok or Delhi were in. After spending last July in the muddy farmyard of Delhi’s monsoon, and wishing to avoid yet another rendezvous with sin city, I decided Tokyo would be a welcome change.
The second step (which overlapped with the first step) was to secure a Registry of Residence certificate. Coercing my landlord into showing the police her ID was no easy feat. After a week of hiding and two personal phone calls from the police, she finally agreed to come down to the station. Once there, she attempted to escape through the back exit, before spending twenty minutes in a side corridor asking various people to check if there were any “foreigners” blocking the front entrance. When our number was finally called, she announced she’d forgotten her ID card. By the time she left, the entire Sanlitun police force was whispering about the mad lady.
After cruising through steps three, four, five and six, I was back to the visa-run. A few days before my scheduled flight to Japan, my company decided I didn’t really need to leave after all. The Tokyo visa-run mega-plan was quickly replaced by an afternoon in the Foreign Registry Office with a private agent who had filled out a 20 centimetre high pile of forms on my behalf. My job was to stand behind him, send good vibes, and look foreign. A week later my passport was returned, proudly bearing the mark of Z.
So I have the Z, but am still left musing over how to collect RMB5000 worth of fapiaos every month, so I don’t lose a huge chunk of my pay. To even come close I need to get my landlord to take a trip down to the Chaoyang tax office. To avoid worrying about this, I have taken to worrying about my partner’s visa issues. For him to get the Z is far more complicated, and I fear he spends too much time on the micro issues, as he’s more often perched on the windowsill meowing at neighbouring cats, than thrashing about in the bureaucratic swamp.
*
The first step to the Z was rising above the quagmire of hysteria-filled forums that overflow with visa rejection cases, and accepting that the ease of the HK visa-run was gone for a while. The message from the Chinese Consulate in Hong Kong was pretty clear: you’re welcome in China, but you’re not welcome to apply for a visa. My company’s generous US$800 visa-run travel allowance had started looking less generous when they said Hong Kong was out, but Tokyo, Bangkok or Delhi were in. After spending last July in the muddy farmyard of Delhi’s monsoon, and wishing to avoid yet another rendezvous with sin city, I decided Tokyo would be a welcome change.
The second step (which overlapped with the first step) was to secure a Registry of Residence certificate. Coercing my landlord into showing the police her ID was no easy feat. After a week of hiding and two personal phone calls from the police, she finally agreed to come down to the station. Once there, she attempted to escape through the back exit, before spending twenty minutes in a side corridor asking various people to check if there were any “foreigners” blocking the front entrance. When our number was finally called, she announced she’d forgotten her ID card. By the time she left, the entire Sanlitun police force was whispering about the mad lady.
After cruising through steps three, four, five and six, I was back to the visa-run. A few days before my scheduled flight to Japan, my company decided I didn’t really need to leave after all. The Tokyo visa-run mega-plan was quickly replaced by an afternoon in the Foreign Registry Office with a private agent who had filled out a 20 centimetre high pile of forms on my behalf. My job was to stand behind him, send good vibes, and look foreign. A week later my passport was returned, proudly bearing the mark of Z.
So I have the Z, but am still left musing over how to collect RMB5000 worth of fapiaos every month, so I don’t lose a huge chunk of my pay. To even come close I need to get my landlord to take a trip down to the Chaoyang tax office. To avoid worrying about this, I have taken to worrying about my partner’s visa issues. For him to get the Z is far more complicated, and I fear he spends too much time on the micro issues, as he’s more often perched on the windowsill meowing at neighbouring cats, than thrashing about in the bureaucratic swamp.
*
14.4.08
tempting fate
.after spotting this beijing cyclist, i was left wondering:
. is this really is the safest way to transport four porcelain vases?
.and did he really want them to reach their destination?
*
. is this really is the safest way to transport four porcelain vases?
.and did he really want them to reach their destination?
*
13.4.08
behind the front
OR: Nadeemy finds a sarcasm-free moment to reflect on China!
China is on the tip of everyone’s tongues – if it’s not talk about the impact this giant is having on the global economy, it’s talk about how it will be received by the international community come the Olympics. “Foreigners” who have already visited China, often leave talking about nothing more than its pollution, the filth of public latrines, the commerce push of its mega-cities, and a few of the great sites. But this is the inaccessibility of the China experience. Without language, without time, and without the willingness to debase a huge and unexpected array of beliefs, I doubt China could be much more. After all, how does one get past years of constructed orientalism, mountains of cheap goods, and the frightening largesse of the statistics, when any single one of these factors is immensely overwhelming?
It is my experience that it is extremely difficult to integrate into Han Chinese culture. Han Chinese tend to circulate in small, closed communities, and are often unwilling to share, or of the mindset that they have nothing to share (other than culinary delights and a few historical sites) with visitors. This trend is only exemplified if one digs into the archives of insular Chinese politics, and takes into consideration the long history of xenophobic and protectionist policies, and the fact that no foreigner can ever hope to become a citizen of China.
Due to an unresolved inner conflict between my eastern and western halves, my father and mother, Asian life and Australian life, it has become very hard for me to speak out against the relentless barrage of ignorant prejudices about China and its people. Indeed, not to speak is the Asian way. To my own discredit, I confess that I constantly reduce myself to entertaining other foreigners with anecdotes about cultural mishaps, and cheap talk of bizarre and untoward differences.
Yet in reality, the transformation in my awareness drawn from Chinese life, has been something innately wondrous and magical. I have been drawn in by the intimate flow of life in the streets, and the joy in making small discoveries. The fleeting moments hidden around every corner, the tiny marketplaces in back alleys, the movement in the hutongs, the red lanterns on snow, the chaotic jumble of bicycles and carts, the worlds within worlds, and the innate calmness of a people who give each space, despite the crowds. But more significantly, I am seduced by the way China is deconstructing and reconstructing me conceptually.
To comprehend anything at all about China, one has to begin by knowing that not only the language, but the mindset and approach to life, are unknown to the western mind. European language concepts are not applicable in Chinese; words only cover parts of meanings, and new meaning take a long, long time to understand. But perhaps the most striking aspect of the Chinese experience is the result of being so firmly outside the sphere and influence of Christianity; to be momentarily free of the intense individualism and egocentrism of nations harvested on the belief that each of us stands alone to be judged before God.
Living inside an empire of communities which devalue the individual so entirely is mind-blowing. On one hand, I will always be conflicted, as I can not cease to believe in the rights and the power of the individual; yet, on the other hand, China has brought me to see clearly the negative offshoots of western individualism. As incredulous as it may seem, many of the “ills of the west” (depression, anxiety, and eating disorders such as anorexia and bulimia) do not exist in Chinese civilization, and are most definitely not treated, diagnosed or authenticated in the same way. I take the viewpoint now, that these ills only exist in personal belief, stemming from a negative egocentrism cradled by social validation.
So to end my artless musings, let me say there is nothing more fantastic than the risk of being shaped and changed in an unimaginable way, and to have every idea one has ever been fool enough to believe in discredited. And of China, that the strength of this nation is undeniable, and lies not in its government, but in the millions of people who believe more in the greatness of this central kingdom than themselves.
*
4.4.08
nike in china
"THE NEW RED?"
Chinese tour groups across the nation are going all out to impress with the new emblem of home-grown communism!
*
laptop feng shui
After a recent investigation, our landlord took the liberty of disconnecting our phone and internet. In her opinion, it was in our best interests to share a modem with a turtle-loving, pyjama-clad DJ, halve our monthly bills, and run a free wire into her room. Angered at the absence of consultation, we told her “no” to the new deal, “no” to the new cables, and politely shut the door. Always one step ahead, she must have had our old cables cut, because despite our continuing account with CNC, we can no longer get online. We have now been without internet for three days, and swamped with feelings of destitution and anger. This is what happens when the centre from which all things flow is uprooted.
So, I find myself perched in a damp corner of the bathroom with the laptop halfway out the window to steal a few heartwarming minutes of wireless, when the dusty spring breeze begins to draw me back into the horrors of the old world …
It was less than two years ago that I resided in a laptop-free zone, where we were forced to do awful things, like: communicate with each other, throw spontaneous pot-luck parties, play Pictionary charades into the early hours, and cover the walls in Pop Art. They were the worst of times, which were luckily cut short when the chai-drinkers left, and two high-powered “laptoppers” moved in.
At this point, let me iterate that being online 24/7 doesn’t equate with emotional or spiritual emptiness. To the contrary, the laptoppers brought focus and synergy to the living environment. The energy of the apartment, once vague and scattered like falling autumn leaves, began to revolve around two very distinct hubs. It was then I realized success could be at my fingertips too, because harmony and peace freely abound in laptop hubs. As the user is auspiciously centered for long periods within the flow of chi, good fortune, such as the eternal fountain of free entertainment, unfettering popularity on Facebook, and a soulful relationship with an E-cupped love puppy in a chat-room, are all potential and propitious gains.
If the hub itself does not reduce household interaction to the level of stabilizing harmony, my advice is to move quickly into the business of VIRTUAL FENG SHUI. Deflect that remaining negativity by protecting the walls around your hub with a series of LCD screens featuring moving images of wind chimes and lotus flowers. The advantage of Virtual Feng Shui is that it can be programmed to cater and respond to several different users. For example, if Turtle Boy’s beats would flow more naturally with eight synchronized goldfish in the west, when he entered the hub, the screens would provide.
Inevitable technological advances promise that soon enough not just Virtual Feng Shui, but your cyber friends, will be upgraded to holograms. Imagine the joy in the cups of your soul-mate from the chat-room, when she projects her image into your hub for a late night rendezvous, and finds herself in a spiritual hotspot, energized by a gushing waterfall in the north, 99 galloping horses in the south, and a lifelike three-legged toad, hopping straight towards her.
*
So, I find myself perched in a damp corner of the bathroom with the laptop halfway out the window to steal a few heartwarming minutes of wireless, when the dusty spring breeze begins to draw me back into the horrors of the old world …
It was less than two years ago that I resided in a laptop-free zone, where we were forced to do awful things, like: communicate with each other, throw spontaneous pot-luck parties, play Pictionary charades into the early hours, and cover the walls in Pop Art. They were the worst of times, which were luckily cut short when the chai-drinkers left, and two high-powered “laptoppers” moved in.
At this point, let me iterate that being online 24/7 doesn’t equate with emotional or spiritual emptiness. To the contrary, the laptoppers brought focus and synergy to the living environment. The energy of the apartment, once vague and scattered like falling autumn leaves, began to revolve around two very distinct hubs. It was then I realized success could be at my fingertips too, because harmony and peace freely abound in laptop hubs. As the user is auspiciously centered for long periods within the flow of chi, good fortune, such as the eternal fountain of free entertainment, unfettering popularity on Facebook, and a soulful relationship with an E-cupped love puppy in a chat-room, are all potential and propitious gains.
If the hub itself does not reduce household interaction to the level of stabilizing harmony, my advice is to move quickly into the business of VIRTUAL FENG SHUI. Deflect that remaining negativity by protecting the walls around your hub with a series of LCD screens featuring moving images of wind chimes and lotus flowers. The advantage of Virtual Feng Shui is that it can be programmed to cater and respond to several different users. For example, if Turtle Boy’s beats would flow more naturally with eight synchronized goldfish in the west, when he entered the hub, the screens would provide.
Inevitable technological advances promise that soon enough not just Virtual Feng Shui, but your cyber friends, will be upgraded to holograms. Imagine the joy in the cups of your soul-mate from the chat-room, when she projects her image into your hub for a late night rendezvous, and finds herself in a spiritual hotspot, energized by a gushing waterfall in the north, 99 galloping horses in the south, and a lifelike three-legged toad, hopping straight towards her.
*
22.3.08
big cats in small boxes
.big cats in small boxes I
Most guidebooks suggest travellers make a pass on the Beijing Zoo. The general outlook is that any enthusiast is in for a fairly miserable adventure, that will lack the Disneyland lustre of well-funded, high-calibre zoos.
What these travellers unfortunately miss out on, is the opportunity to be absolutely appalled at the horrendous conditions at this zoo, and be forced to use all manner of will-power not to open cages, and release a family of Siberian tigers into the back Hutongs of the city.
Not only are the Jing's animals clearly suffering from isolation and neglect, there has clearly been very little attempt at natural environment simulation. So instead of being surrounded by trees and the sounds of nature (which can't survive the Beijing winter anyway), most animals live in barred-off, cemented, pocket-hole apartments - not so unlike the human population, but without an out.
Whilst the most difficult vision is the hall filled with giant cats (lions, tigers, jaguars etc) locked indoors, in tiny, cement enclosures, it is also depressing (for an Australian) to find a group of kangaroos huddled around a heater in a small cement box.
.big cats in small boxes II
*
14.2.08
the tao of construction
Life in an Asian mega-city requires punters to gracefully accept the relentless seven day a week cacophony of construction and demolition. Large-scale urban develop- ments and rising megalithic skyscrapers have become the Asian way – the one dream of transforming China into a giant, matrix-esque, HK-style playground.
Despite sharing this grand vision of urbanization, I can’t repress the troubling thought that the victims of construction-related psycho-trauma must now be in the millions. The unforgiving bang-drill-dust combo is not only an assault on the senses, but a key contributor to rising levels of sleep deprivation, migraines, allergies, and angry delusions.
A few questions I know I want answered are: how bigger stake do earplug multinationals have in construction? When will freelancers be compensated for low productivity due to noise pollution? Will that film of toxic dust ever leave? And on a more personal note, who is going to wean me off oxymetazoline? Oh, sweet nasal decongestant.
I realize my construction-related trauma withers next to Mr. X, the last stronghold in a demolition site near my apartment, but I started out on the back-foot – softened by a life in suburban Australia, where the most offensive noise pollutants are tone-deaf corellas. The following is my personal account as a survivor of long-term exposure to construction, and how I found inner peace in a sea of excavators, cranes and pile-drivers.
I spent my first year in Asia in an apartment circumvented by building sites. After about 93 consecutive 5am wake-up calls, my counter-construction terrorism fantasies began. They were usually preceded by fantastical nightmares, in which a mutant species of demolitionists would descend upon my pad with an array of chainsaws and jackhammers. I would always display a few crouching-tiger hidden-dragon style moves, before realizing the smallness of being a guard-dog for a rental property, and exiting through the back window with my Shakira poster and a few angry barks.
To manage my delusions, I began to meditate – bearing in mind that harmony with surroundings is a key principle in mastering the Tao of Construction. Instead of forging my own path, I began to go with the sounds. I allowed the whirring of distant graders to become ocean sounds, and the heavy thuds, the hooves of horses on open plains. When the sounds became too invasive, I harnessed their energy for positive action. I used the repetitive bangs as a metronome for playing my oboe, and when I felt more subversive than musical, as resistance training for relevant torture techniques.
My advice for all victims of the construction scram is: don’t let the demolitionists win – embrace the Tao. Those living in districts targeted for pre-Olympic developments are in the greatest danger, but all residents must use earplugs and dust-masks, and meditate until the August fervour declines.
If despite all your efforts, you are still unlucky enough to be one of the million Beijingers handed pre-Olympic eviction notices, look at it as a chance for a positive, new start – this is your way out of that bang-drill-dust rut, and back to a peaceful life in the countryside!
To see this article in print link to: Urbane China, Habitat, March 2008.
*
Despite sharing this grand vision of urbanization, I can’t repress the troubling thought that the victims of construction-related psycho-trauma must now be in the millions. The unforgiving bang-drill-dust combo is not only an assault on the senses, but a key contributor to rising levels of sleep deprivation, migraines, allergies, and angry delusions.
A few questions I know I want answered are: how bigger stake do earplug multinationals have in construction? When will freelancers be compensated for low productivity due to noise pollution? Will that film of toxic dust ever leave? And on a more personal note, who is going to wean me off oxymetazoline? Oh, sweet nasal decongestant.
I realize my construction-related trauma withers next to Mr. X, the last stronghold in a demolition site near my apartment, but I started out on the back-foot – softened by a life in suburban Australia, where the most offensive noise pollutants are tone-deaf corellas. The following is my personal account as a survivor of long-term exposure to construction, and how I found inner peace in a sea of excavators, cranes and pile-drivers.
I spent my first year in Asia in an apartment circumvented by building sites. After about 93 consecutive 5am wake-up calls, my counter-construction terrorism fantasies began. They were usually preceded by fantastical nightmares, in which a mutant species of demolitionists would descend upon my pad with an array of chainsaws and jackhammers. I would always display a few crouching-tiger hidden-dragon style moves, before realizing the smallness of being a guard-dog for a rental property, and exiting through the back window with my Shakira poster and a few angry barks.
To manage my delusions, I began to meditate – bearing in mind that harmony with surroundings is a key principle in mastering the Tao of Construction. Instead of forging my own path, I began to go with the sounds. I allowed the whirring of distant graders to become ocean sounds, and the heavy thuds, the hooves of horses on open plains. When the sounds became too invasive, I harnessed their energy for positive action. I used the repetitive bangs as a metronome for playing my oboe, and when I felt more subversive than musical, as resistance training for relevant torture techniques.
My advice for all victims of the construction scram is: don’t let the demolitionists win – embrace the Tao. Those living in districts targeted for pre-Olympic developments are in the greatest danger, but all residents must use earplugs and dust-masks, and meditate until the August fervour declines.
If despite all your efforts, you are still unlucky enough to be one of the million Beijingers handed pre-Olympic eviction notices, look at it as a chance for a positive, new start – this is your way out of that bang-drill-dust rut, and back to a peaceful life in the countryside!
To see this article in print link to: Urbane China, Habitat, March 2008.
*
2.2.08
the dervish-hippy instruction manual
.(foto: el noveno colectivo)
One of India’s most striking first impressions is her dervishes – the original hippy model. Hindu men in the fourth stage of their Earthly development, re-enter the community on the outskirts, as possession-free observers. Those in this stage of material absolution can be found bathing in the holy waters of the Ganges, philosophising in small posses, and spinning in circles.
Many a western punter sets out on their first journey with the heart-warming intention to escape the plethora of social constraints that have controlled their life up to any given point. There are more than a few that harbour the secret desire to join the travelling ‘hippy elite,’ but often find themselves confounded by a range of new, and often confusing, expectations. Amateur queries can be as simple as: why can’t I wear shoes anymore? And, why can’t I laugh when someone cuts the cheese in yoga class?
Sadly, more than a few hopefuls have been disappointed by their failure to rack up enough hippy-cred. To save the children of the world from further heartbreak I have designed a fast-track, 4-step method to emancipation from your prior self, and rebirth as a hardcore hippy.
STAGE 1: Taking the Plunge
Move to India and start eating from the street. Within two weeks you will be suffering from your first bout of dysentery – the first in a line of many. Over time, this will help give you that skinny, emaciated look.
TIP: Aim for frequent bouts of traveller's diarrhoea (pakoras from railway stations are a good option), as this will speed up the process of emaciation.
STAGE 2: The Radical Transformation
Hide your polar-fleece sweater, havaiana thongs, and credit card, and start wearing a sarong with strings of brightly dyed beads around your neck. At this stage it is imperative that you get your hair dreadlocked, and STOP using shampoo. Neat dreads do not guarantee hippy-cred! You need to aim for that matted, ‘I’ve had dreads since I emerged from the womb’ look.
TIP: rinsing your hair in the Ganges is a good way to contract a plethora of tropical diseases that will assist you along the road to emaciation and emancipation.
STAGE 3: Upping the Drug Intake
By this stage you should be smoking ganja at 15 minute intervals throughout the day; and instead of pakoras, nourish your body with a cocktail of hallucinogenics. This is by no means the ‘authentic’ Hindu way, but it will help give you an air of wonder and nonchalance, and break down any resistance you had to meditating in a pile of garbage and cow shit.
TIP: claim regular sightings of god-like apparitions; claim a rainbow is a sighting of Shiva, and the monkey on your balcony, Hanuman.
STAGE 4: Authenticate or Dissipate
By stage 4 you should be experiencing the enlightenment of a frightening combination of dysentrious and drug-induced delusions. Your accessories and hairstyle should be perfect, and the dirt building up under your nails. It is time for you to start chanting and throwing ‘holy water’ on the locals, in between making wild, religious proclamations.
TIP: try to avoid taking yourself too seriously, and believing in your newfound authentic hardcore hippy self. Remember you stole most of your attributes from India’s dervishes: dreadlocks; the minimalist but colourful accessories; the sarong; yoga; bare feet; living with nature; vegetarianism; living on the outskirts; the relinquishment of material possessions; Buddhism (something like Hinduism minus the caste system); and non-violence towards animals.
.(foto: el noveno colectivo)
*
31.1.08
through the peephole
As a new resident to the Jing, I soon realized my pad wasn’t going to be that lulling haven of privacy and personal space I had naively imagined – luckily I was eased in gently.
My first landlord, Mr. Li, was a pensioner, and relatively averse to climbing the seventy-odd steps to reach my door. The rare burst of enthusiasm, would of course find him passing through in the wee hours with a team of camera-laden surveyors ready to profile the walls – ‘support evidence’ for damage claims caused by new constructions. In these grandiose intrusions, we would quickly become pajama-clad wall-flowers, and try to avoid the bright flashes. As time passed, I came to consider the occasional loss of space a fair trade for old Mr. Li’s genuine kindness. Lost keys would have him wandering the streets at midnight looking for a locksmith, and my rent-paying occasionally culminated in a drunken ballad.
Mr. Li however, was no training ground for my SanLiTun love-shack collective – ruled over by Li Jie and her troupe of over-sexed cats. It was late one night when I was frying eggs and contemplating reality, that a blinding flash filled the window. A color-wolf! An egg-flipping voyeur! A pervert with a stick-on beard! My claims had my macho-man racing out to accost the offender. Finding Li Jie outside the front-door, he recounted the event. It was then that she unabashedly announced she was just feeling a bit snap-happy; and the Mexican took an extended moment, outside in his slippers, to contemplate a new reality shared with Li Jie.
Another unusual visit soon followed, in which Li Jie attempted to accost some of our household items: old slippers, a rice-steamer, a large kitchen-knife … Spurned on by these visits, the disappearance of a lucky, red paper Fu, and too much Hollywood, a few paranoias began to emerge. A string of 3am phone calls, an hour of banging on our walls, and a blackout, had us huddled, trembling in the dark – waiting for it all to stop. Sweet daylight brought me to the realization that the faulty power-switch was behind our couch; we were to blame for the collective blackout … and maybe Li Jie just wanted her heater to work, not to murder us …
Another series of power-cuts late one afternoon had Li Jie trundling back and forth in front of our apartment. In role as a neighbourhood detective, the Mexican was spying on Li Jie through the door-viewer. He was fortunate enough a witness her ensuing struggle to dislodge our Christmas wreath. Li Jie, caught red-handed, temporarily froze, dropped the wreath, claimed it was for our safety, and scooted out.
Since then, Li Jie has been lying low; and it has become just as likely she will find me peering through her window with binoculars, as I will find her. I remain suspicious that when we’re out of town, she (or at least the cats) loll about in the love-shack, use the rice steamer, and languish in the warmth, but in a strange way, I am becoming ever more comfortable with the idea.
For the massacred version of this article in print: Urbane China, Habitat, February 2008.
*
My first landlord, Mr. Li, was a pensioner, and relatively averse to climbing the seventy-odd steps to reach my door. The rare burst of enthusiasm, would of course find him passing through in the wee hours with a team of camera-laden surveyors ready to profile the walls – ‘support evidence’ for damage claims caused by new constructions. In these grandiose intrusions, we would quickly become pajama-clad wall-flowers, and try to avoid the bright flashes. As time passed, I came to consider the occasional loss of space a fair trade for old Mr. Li’s genuine kindness. Lost keys would have him wandering the streets at midnight looking for a locksmith, and my rent-paying occasionally culminated in a drunken ballad.
Mr. Li however, was no training ground for my SanLiTun love-shack collective – ruled over by Li Jie and her troupe of over-sexed cats. It was late one night when I was frying eggs and contemplating reality, that a blinding flash filled the window. A color-wolf! An egg-flipping voyeur! A pervert with a stick-on beard! My claims had my macho-man racing out to accost the offender. Finding Li Jie outside the front-door, he recounted the event. It was then that she unabashedly announced she was just feeling a bit snap-happy; and the Mexican took an extended moment, outside in his slippers, to contemplate a new reality shared with Li Jie.
Another unusual visit soon followed, in which Li Jie attempted to accost some of our household items: old slippers, a rice-steamer, a large kitchen-knife … Spurned on by these visits, the disappearance of a lucky, red paper Fu, and too much Hollywood, a few paranoias began to emerge. A string of 3am phone calls, an hour of banging on our walls, and a blackout, had us huddled, trembling in the dark – waiting for it all to stop. Sweet daylight brought me to the realization that the faulty power-switch was behind our couch; we were to blame for the collective blackout … and maybe Li Jie just wanted her heater to work, not to murder us …
Another series of power-cuts late one afternoon had Li Jie trundling back and forth in front of our apartment. In role as a neighbourhood detective, the Mexican was spying on Li Jie through the door-viewer. He was fortunate enough a witness her ensuing struggle to dislodge our Christmas wreath. Li Jie, caught red-handed, temporarily froze, dropped the wreath, claimed it was for our safety, and scooted out.
Since then, Li Jie has been lying low; and it has become just as likely she will find me peering through her window with binoculars, as I will find her. I remain suspicious that when we’re out of town, she (or at least the cats) loll about in the love-shack, use the rice steamer, and languish in the warmth, but in a strange way, I am becoming ever more comfortable with the idea.
For the massacred version of this article in print: Urbane China, Habitat, February 2008.
*
"mass teacher extermination"
I received the following e-mail from one of my current workplaces in Beijing. It is an excellent example of how 'workers rights' are not part of the Chinese vocabulary, and why China needs English schools. Please note that a complete list of the evaluation scores were included!
Check Your Place In The Competition: Should be known!
Ladys and Gentlemen,
Teaching Department will eliminate 10 teachers at the beginning of February. We will add your December evaluation score into the January one and get a total ranking from the highest score. The last 10 people will be eliminated from 15th,Feb.
Those who always rank in the top 3 will have more chances to get a raise and those who are always in the last 5 of the ranking will be cut the class' hours or salaries. This will not include the teachers who did not participate in December evaluations.
Please pay attention and Good luck! Peace, Jacy
My favourite part is still the well-wishing at the end! As you can imagine this e-mail was met with widespread discontent. Here are some of the responses:
1. Make that nine teachers. This is my two week notice. Jivan
2. Correction, make that 8 teachers. This is also my 2 week notice. Ryan
3. Hello Jacy, I take it the ten eliminated will not include those that sleep with, bribe or otherwise coerce their students which is the reason why they are at the top of this list. This is a very bold action resulting in some very good teachers being lost. But I understand the business side of it. Regards, Gerald
*
Check Your Place In The Competition: Should be known!
Ladys and Gentlemen,
Teaching Department will eliminate 10 teachers at the beginning of February. We will add your December evaluation score into the January one and get a total ranking from the highest score. The last 10 people will be eliminated from 15th,Feb.
Those who always rank in the top 3 will have more chances to get a raise and those who are always in the last 5 of the ranking will be cut the class' hours or salaries. This will not include the teachers who did not participate in December evaluations.
Please pay attention and Good luck! Peace, Jacy
My favourite part is still the well-wishing at the end! As you can imagine this e-mail was met with widespread discontent. Here are some of the responses:
1. Make that nine teachers. This is my two week notice. Jivan
2. Correction, make that 8 teachers. This is also my 2 week notice. Ryan
3. Hello Jacy, I take it the ten eliminated will not include those that sleep with, bribe or otherwise coerce their students which is the reason why they are at the top of this list. This is a very bold action resulting in some very good teachers being lost. But I understand the business side of it. Regards, Gerald
*
1.5 million pre-olympic evictions
Olympic related ‘urban transformation’ has displaced more than 2 million people in the last 20 years. In a bid not to let the team down, China is making every effort to violate the housing rights of 1.5 million Beijingers pre-Olympics.
Districts targeted for development and evictions include: (in alphabetical order) Dongcheng, Chaoyang, Chongwen, Fengtai, Haidian, Shijingshan, Xicheng and Xuanwu – most of the city. Human Rights groups have claimed: the evictions are characterized by a lack of formal process; and that tenants are often given little or no notice, and little or no compensation.
It is not uncommon to hear about, or even see, cases of tenants refusing to leave their homes, despite new constructions being approved, and demolition of the site being initiated. These last ‘strongholds’ can be seen clinging to a way of life, even as the rest of a building crumbles around them.
What we can hope to find at the dawn of the Olympics is a spanking new city, full of office buildings, shopping centres, modern apartment complexes, and newly widened roads, overlaying the Beijing that was – its dusty, picturesque alleys, full of hutongs and small-time vendors.
.gongtiyuchan dajie, sanlitun (foto: noveno colectivo)
*
Districts targeted for development and evictions include: (in alphabetical order) Dongcheng, Chaoyang, Chongwen, Fengtai, Haidian, Shijingshan, Xicheng and Xuanwu – most of the city. Human Rights groups have claimed: the evictions are characterized by a lack of formal process; and that tenants are often given little or no notice, and little or no compensation.
It is not uncommon to hear about, or even see, cases of tenants refusing to leave their homes, despite new constructions being approved, and demolition of the site being initiated. These last ‘strongholds’ can be seen clinging to a way of life, even as the rest of a building crumbles around them.
What we can hope to find at the dawn of the Olympics is a spanking new city, full of office buildings, shopping centres, modern apartment complexes, and newly widened roads, overlaying the Beijing that was – its dusty, picturesque alleys, full of hutongs and small-time vendors.
.gongtiyuchan dajie, sanlitun (foto: noveno colectivo)
*
24.1.08
montage of first impressions
it is us. we are dreaming together again – soaring through the sky wrapped in the promises of a hanging full moon. the night has us gently in her palm, but soon she will tire – and leave us to tumble through the darkness … 
down, down, to a place where our thoughts and words will be stolen by the roaring of a dying muffler, and our eyes will be filled with the stories of other dreamers, and the night cows who graze sleepily in the quiet hours.
in blinding heat we see flashes of jasmine and marigolds, ripened fruits fermenting on the roadside, and the sandy earth stirring, awaiting the violence of the monsoon. as i turn my head, india turns herself upside-down – the winds of saris sweeping the streets with golden dust. 
my hands touch her first, wrists bound in jingling bangles, and palms stained with ash-orange henna. i cover my hair, lower my eyes, and disappear. in sarojini nagar he opens his eyes and looks up. i am no longer me, but her, and he is no longer him, but them.
做文明北京人: civilization campaigns
"It is crucial that the public should strive to desert all uncivilized behavior, and work vigorously toward creating a civilized and harmonious society to host a successful Olympic games."
– 2008 Olympic committee President Liu Qi
Pre-Olympic ‘Civilize China’ or ‘Wen Ming’ Campaigns are in many ways no more than a repeat of China’s historical purges – without the public killings. ‘Civilization’ is being imposed with a heavy hand from the government, for the sole purpose of ‘saving face’ when the foreign devils descend upon the city.
Eradicating behaviours such as: littering, foul language, spitting in public areas, smoking, line-cutting, and wrongful conduct at sports events, are now under the jurisdiction of the Government’s Capital Spiritual Civilization Office. The introduction of a 50RMB fine for spitting in public is just one of the government’s new initiatives.
During the past year, mass-mail outs reaching millions have informed citizens about what is now considered ‘proper conduct.’ Additionally, service sector workers such as taxi drivers, shop assistants and bus conductors, along with civil servants have been given ‘civilization training courses.’ The 11th day of every month is now ‘lining-up day;’ and to emulate the attractive, symmetrical lines of the number 11, citizens are encouraged to board public transport in an orderly fashion.
On a more sinister note, a number of taxi drivers are now being sent out in civvies to spy on their colleagues. These ‘undercover agents’ have been put in place to ensure appropriate taxi conduct, and fine the offenders 200RMB (about 10 percent of their monthly wage). Of course there is no excuse for poor conduct, when you consider the notices displayed on every glove-box, reminding the driver that being ‘civilized’ means: brushing your teeth, bathing each day, and changing your clothes regularly.
In a further initiative, petrol multinational Sinopec has masterminded a privately-run campaign aimed at civilizing the Jing’s drivers. More than a sixth of the capital’s drivers have agreed to be secretly filmed, in the hope of making it through ten minutes of civilized driving. Ten road-rage free minutes caught on camera rewards the driver with 200RMB worth of fuel, a 300RMB carwash, and televised glory. Uncivilized driving is treated with televised humiliation.
Overall, we are left wondering if the Government’s campaigns will have any real, lasting effect after the heat of the Olympics passes, and just how ‘civilized’ it is, to enforce ‘civilized’ behaviour.
.sanlitun billboard: be a civilized beijinger for a great olympics!
*
17.1.08
safety: always on the agenda
.free-style cabling outside sanlitun jinkelong (a local supermarket)
.the close-up ... don't be afraid!
*
13.1.08
oxymetazoline love
Since moving to Beijing I have reclaimed my former Taipei status as an oxymetazoline junkie – each day my sanity ever more reliant on the sweet congestive release proffered by this bitter nasal spray. I’m not a physician (or a psychologist), but I’m recognizing a pattern of congestion and dependency related to my residencies in polluted Asian capitals; capitals which render me vulnerable through their overpopulation of inhalable particles.
With oxymetazoline as my savior, I have not been forced to don a space-age air mask; nor join the China Smokers Collective, which in its grassroot efforts to avoid breathing in air pollutants consumes 3 million ciggies a minute. It is my firm belief that many Chinese have come to realize the best way to avoid being one of the 400,000 destined to die a premature death from air pollution each year, is to take fate into their own hands, and become one of the million who die from smoking.
In this era of pre-Olympic transformative development madness, the Chinese government has never been under more pressure to hide both their air pollutants and smokers – at least in the Jing. At first glance it seems impossible, and more than a small conundrum to find a place to put sixteen of the world’s twenty most polluted cities, and a third of the world’s smokers, unaccustomed to regulation. But, luckily for China and the Olympics, the Chinese Government has never been one to shy away from mass-scale implementations, and the looming threat that a crime as small as handbag theft could lead to execution, works wonders in keeping people on the right side of the law.
One relatively successful government policy has been to shut-down (or relocate) a number of central city factories, in an “if you can’t see the air pollution it doesn’t exist” style ploy. It has now been a year since the largest offender, responsible for half of the Jing’s air pollution, disappeared off the skyline, rendering the vision of clear-ish skies. Admittedly the rays are sometimes a muddy-blue or hazy-jaffa, but opposed to popular international opinion, sunlight is a more regular feature than smog on the Jing’s weather chart.
Unfortunately for the government and their regulation enforcement limitations, the wind roams freely; so whilst one day might be relatively clear, with a pollution rating of 50 (25 is safe), a day later, with a change in wind direction, the pollution rating can skyrocket to 500. On these doomsdays, with a sky radiating a dark orangey-grey, the government tends to issue warnings that the children and elderly stay indoors. Incidentally, a number of “warning-rating days” in Beijing coincided with my re-found dependency on oxymetazoline, which depending on how you want to look at it, may be either a physical or psychological reaction to air pollution.
Luckily, we have recently been granted a new outdoor safe zone, as all the Jing’s taxis have been converted into no-smoking areas – one of China’s pre-Olympic “Civilize China Campaigns.” Before this momentous occasion, leaving your apartment was a choice of traversing smog-filled streets with dangerous inhalable particles, or travelling in a confined space full of cigarette fumes. More unfortunate news is at bay for China’s smokers however, as a double government whammy will outlaw hocking up the pollutants and spitting them onto the sidewalk, in a new incentive to hide the air pollution. From now until the Olympics every Chinese citizen will be required to permanently ingest their fair share of inhalable particles!
*
With oxymetazoline as my savior, I have not been forced to don a space-age air mask; nor join the China Smokers Collective, which in its grassroot efforts to avoid breathing in air pollutants consumes 3 million ciggies a minute. It is my firm belief that many Chinese have come to realize the best way to avoid being one of the 400,000 destined to die a premature death from air pollution each year, is to take fate into their own hands, and become one of the million who die from smoking.
In this era of pre-Olympic transformative development madness, the Chinese government has never been under more pressure to hide both their air pollutants and smokers – at least in the Jing. At first glance it seems impossible, and more than a small conundrum to find a place to put sixteen of the world’s twenty most polluted cities, and a third of the world’s smokers, unaccustomed to regulation. But, luckily for China and the Olympics, the Chinese Government has never been one to shy away from mass-scale implementations, and the looming threat that a crime as small as handbag theft could lead to execution, works wonders in keeping people on the right side of the law.
One relatively successful government policy has been to shut-down (or relocate) a number of central city factories, in an “if you can’t see the air pollution it doesn’t exist” style ploy. It has now been a year since the largest offender, responsible for half of the Jing’s air pollution, disappeared off the skyline, rendering the vision of clear-ish skies. Admittedly the rays are sometimes a muddy-blue or hazy-jaffa, but opposed to popular international opinion, sunlight is a more regular feature than smog on the Jing’s weather chart.
Unfortunately for the government and their regulation enforcement limitations, the wind roams freely; so whilst one day might be relatively clear, with a pollution rating of 50 (25 is safe), a day later, with a change in wind direction, the pollution rating can skyrocket to 500. On these doomsdays, with a sky radiating a dark orangey-grey, the government tends to issue warnings that the children and elderly stay indoors. Incidentally, a number of “warning-rating days” in Beijing coincided with my re-found dependency on oxymetazoline, which depending on how you want to look at it, may be either a physical or psychological reaction to air pollution.
Luckily, we have recently been granted a new outdoor safe zone, as all the Jing’s taxis have been converted into no-smoking areas – one of China’s pre-Olympic “Civilize China Campaigns.” Before this momentous occasion, leaving your apartment was a choice of traversing smog-filled streets with dangerous inhalable particles, or travelling in a confined space full of cigarette fumes. More unfortunate news is at bay for China’s smokers however, as a double government whammy will outlaw hocking up the pollutants and spitting them onto the sidewalk, in a new incentive to hide the air pollution. From now until the Olympics every Chinese citizen will be required to permanently ingest their fair share of inhalable particles!
*
10.1.08
protests in the air pollution capital
.street art around sanlitun: protests in the world's 'air pollution capital'
EVERY DAY IN CHINA ...
24 new skyscrapers are opened
2,074 new cars are sold in Beijing alone
1,000 premature deaths are attributed to air pollution
*
the art of roach war
"Apartment sharing in Beijing often refers to living with a plague of anarchic roaches. They live in squats, hide out in the walls, and chortle about the hysteria that always accompanies their timely raids ..."
*
architect extraordinaire
Architects in China are having a field day in China’s pre-Olympic development boom. For all those architects who felt their ‘art’ was being thwarted for more practical concerns, Beijing has become their second-home. It would seem the key phrases they have in mind are:
EXHIBIT I: The leaning towers of Beijing will become the new home to CCTV - China Central Television Headquarters. When the project finishes, the buildings will reach a height of 230 metres, with a 60 degree lean (20 degrees more than Pisa), culminating in a 90 degree bend across the top! I say: good luck to the 10,000 people going to work there everyday ... The Jing may soon need some new TV journos.
.the leaning towers on their way to completion ...
EXHIBIT 2: Sanlitun's 'Fairytale Pumpkin Palace' or as the architect's have coined it: "the cradle of the rejuvenation of the entire village." When the Village is complete, it will house over 20 four-story retail blocks, a boutique hotel, a cinema complex, bars, restaurants, and the world's biggest Adidas store.
.the windows glisten a brilliant orange in the afternoon sun!
.venturing into the fairytale pumpkin!
*
PSYCHADELIC VISUAL POLLUTION
EYE-SORE EXTRAORDINAIRE!
*glistening fairy-tale pumpkin*
& SAFETY IS NOT ON THE AGENDA!
EYE-SORE EXTRAORDINAIRE!
*glistening fairy-tale pumpkin*
& SAFETY IS NOT ON THE AGENDA!
EXHIBIT I: The leaning towers of Beijing will become the new home to CCTV - China Central Television Headquarters. When the project finishes, the buildings will reach a height of 230 metres, with a 60 degree lean (20 degrees more than Pisa), culminating in a 90 degree bend across the top! I say: good luck to the 10,000 people going to work there everyday ... The Jing may soon need some new TV journos.
.the leaning towers on their way to completion ...
EXHIBIT 2: Sanlitun's 'Fairytale Pumpkin Palace' or as the architect's have coined it: "the cradle of the rejuvenation of the entire village." When the Village is complete, it will house over 20 four-story retail blocks, a boutique hotel, a cinema complex, bars, restaurants, and the world's biggest Adidas store.
.the windows glisten a brilliant orange in the afternoon sun!
.venturing into the fairytale pumpkin!
*
7.1.08
taiwan sweets: ai yu
.ai-yu seeds are set into cooling jellies in the summer.
Although it may seem improbable, ai-yu seeds, mixed with water, actually turn into a delicious jelly. It is believed that ai-yu cools the body down, and calms yang energy.
To prepare ai yu tie up the seeds in a cloth bag, and drop the bag into a bowl of cold water. You need to rub the bag with your hands for about ten minutes to help the seeds produce their jelly-like substance. Place the ai-yu water in the freezer, and leave it for half an hour to set. It is served with lemon and sugar.
*
To prepare ai yu tie up the seeds in a cloth bag, and drop the bag into a bowl of cold water. You need to rub the bag with your hands for about ten minutes to help the seeds produce their jelly-like substance. Place the ai-yu water in the freezer, and leave it for half an hour to set. It is served with lemon and sugar.
penghu: ugly island
I recently dragged my menopausal mother to the PENGHU Islands in the Taiwanese Strait. Lonely Planet claims Penghu is a ‘popular summertime destination for its white sandy beaches, swimming, camping, windsurfing and beautiful coral beaches,’ and ‘a trip through history with its preserved fishing villages and beautiful temples.’ Other claims are the islands have a beautiful, windswept landscape contrasting from Taiwan’s mountainous tropics.
After a four day sentence we have renamed Penghu UGLY ISLAND, primarily for its barren landscape of debris and trash, but also for its devastating lack of trees and geographical contrast. Flat, empty, and covered in mutilated pine tree stumps. Contrary to Lonely Planet’s claims that camping is permitted, Penghu is a strategic and contentious military base located between Taiwan and China. Military training programs mean no beach access, so we spent the first night in a fluorescent-lit, mosquito-filled, white-tiled room. To escape impending claustrophobia, we ventured to the annual Fireworks Festival/Mother’s Day Variety Show with a crowd of 30,000 (great for my Australian mother who thinks Mother’s Day is a day for everyone else to piss off and give her some long deserved peace). The event coincided with the birthday of a very important god (obviously), because he was made entirely of glowing plastic, with a green laser-beam coming out of his third eye, fire and bubbles shooting out of his hands, and a stand adorned with flashing blue-diamond bonsais. The nearby river glowed with the reflection of a neon rainbow bridge, and we were privy to wannabe rock stars, school choirs, nonsensical English ballads, and divinely, crackling fireworks. I eventually realised however that I was the local freak show, finding myself surrounded by TV cameras, bright lights and Chinese questions. Luckily my mother jumped in front of me (in true Leo style), and yes, we made National Taiwan News - the crazed white woman and the gypsy mute.
The next day we left Penghu’s ‘civilization’ for the nearby island of Chipei. Arrival brought the vision of a true nuclear landscape - flattened plains of landfills and dust, intense winds, scorching heat, heavy smog, few surviving plants or buildings, and a coastline littered with the debris of destroyed tombs (which I later found out is intentional – after drying out the bones of the ancestors, they should be kept closer to home). Forget about campgrounds with running water, beach-front cafes, swinging hammocks, tropical cocktails, and ripples licking golden sands. Chipei meant camping alone in a small, solitary patch of pine trees and rubbish (with no books, music, games or extended company), severe sunstroke and headaches, violent sandstorms, and shores littered with hissing, twisting sea snakes.
We were facing three days of utter abjection and each other. My mother began by blaming me for the geographical deficiencies and lack of ‘Keep Penghu Beautiful’ campaigns. She informed me I had some “hare-brained ideas,” partnered by the more vehement “when you reach my age, you are going to regret the suffering you put me through.” To ensure her prophecy comes true, I made her ride on the back of a 100cc scooter, strung in handbags, travel-packs, sleeping bags, a 4-man tent and an IKEA mattress.
The lowest points however were our mealtime tensions and conflicts. Chipei is incredibly remote and survives primarily on a staple of rice and fish - my mother is allergic to both, and my Chinese is seriously limited. Somehow we ended up on a diet of giant snails and sea-urchin pancakes, which I have discovered to be the most effective laxatives after magic mushrooms. Great for camping without a trowel, without toilet paper, and without bathrooms or running water for miles.
.my mother's overall feeling about the landscape
.a very important god, and his very important birthday
.punters snapping shots of the god!
.the neon rainbow!
.enjoying the mothers' day festivities!
.overview of ugly island
.enjoying a scenic, coastal ride!
.debris from the opened graves!
.enjoying a bit of nature at the campsite!
.torching shells for a delicious snack!
.mum is all ready for pie, pie, pie, gobble gobble gobble!
.a good reason not to go swimming or barefooted in the sand!
.some small treasures amongst the trash
.a walk along the beach!
.enjoying a bit of quality mother-daughter time ...
.filling the hours with as many facial expressions as possible!
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