‘Testing times’

北京 日记簿。Beijing Diary.

“Climbing skyscrapers with bare hands seemed impossible to me, but I have realized that the impossible remains until you make it possible.” It seemed an unlikely place to meet Spiderman, but on the overnight China Airlines flight to Beijing there was a leather clad, distinctive fellow who managed to lie down on the uncomfortable seats and sleep all the way. Alain Robert was on his way to Tsingtao to scope a skyscraper to climb; which he does for a fee of some US$40,000. This diminutively built man with shoulder length greying blond hair, pale blue eyes and Depardieu nose, had watched a mountain rescue film at the age of 8 and began a climbing career that includes the Sears Tower, Petronas Towers and Eifel tower; all this without any suction cups or ropes! “I climb on the edge because it makes me feel alive,” Alain told me over coffee in the airport. In a way that only the French could make it sound at once romantic and heroic, Alain said “I am broken;” I noticed the bone jutting from his right wrist as he stirred the sugar in black coffee, and he now worries about making a living when he is unable to spectacularly climb towers like Sears in 90 minutes. (www.alainrobert.com) I was struck by the sensitivity of Alain’s handshake as we said goodbye, he flying on to risk his life, and me to start mine again in Beijing.

China Airlines was a completely different experience to SIA, and heralded the change in lifestyle I was about to have in Beijing. In Singapore I stayed with Tim Charlton in his glass, wood, steel and carefully furnished apartment, enjoying the company of Kai and friends there. After the overnight flight I decided to treat myself to the Xi Jiao hotel, a 4 star complex next to the university with in-room broadband and shoe shine mits. In a week the weather has changed to Spring, and the buds are bursting out and magnolia flowers are enlivening the otherwise drab and dusty Wudaokou (五道口) area. In amongst this complex of 1970’s 5 storey red and grey brick apartments Nicole and I found a room in building 22-7-101, living with Jenny, an accounting student from Mongolia, and Israel, a Wushu student from Nashville, USA.

My new address.

Wangzhuang road. Dongwangzhuang apartment building 22-7-101. Haidian District Beijing. China. 100083.

地址：北京市海淀区王庄路。东王庄小区二十二楼 七单元一零一。中文。

邮编：100083

tel: 861 062320436

mob: 861 355 2120004

Singapore – The comfort of returning home

Beijing Diaries – March 21, 2004
新加坡

Monday evening in Beijing I packed my big red suitcase with clothes and touted it to Sabina’s new apartment, and we went for the last supper in the Xiao Miao hotel shopping mall, overlooking a swimming pool. Classmates Sabina, Connie, her friend Els (a Belgian woman sailing around the world) felt we deserved the bottle of elegantly named ‘Great Wall’ red wine having walked it the day before. The pool signs told swimmers that in order to venture into the deep end they had to pass a test. For women entry cost RMB58, for men RMB68. We contemplated the exams that loomed in the morning, sad that Connie had to go back to the Canaries, while Sabina and I knew we needed to pass to take our next course.

After an anxious night’s sleep not helped by the Great Wall wine, I got up bleary eyed at 06.30, stared blankly at pages of characters, and headed to classroom #313. I took a long look at the six pages that covered grammar, vocabulary, measure words and composition, trying to suppress the rising sense of panic and delving back to think about how we were taught to take exams at school in Kent. I calmed myself as I realized I recognized almost all of the characters, but was alarmed again not remembering their meanings. I reminded myself that at 37 years old a test in Basic Mandarin should not be a life defining moment. In the oral test I felt the awkwardness of a 4 year old when the teacher asked me a question I didn’t quite understand – she kindly asked me the same question several ways, my reply similar to that of a small child. Two hours of stress not felt since my French ‘O’ level and I was ready to head to the airport.

‘Airport’ is one of those Chinese words that I learnt one must be careful with. I energetically engaged the taxi driver in dialogue from each of the 17 lessons I had studied; “where could I buy fruit?”, “did he go to the Opera?”, “how many stops before we reached Tiananmen?” but it was “take me to the airport” (ji cháng) that raised the largest smile; I was to find out why at the wedding on Sat. I was just one of the 2.25 million passengers each month that struggle to find a good coffee in the airport, and one of just over 400,000 international travelers that paid the RMB90 exit surcharge in Feb. alone. The ‘Beijing 2008’ shop needs the help of an American consultant, offering a limited supply of water bottles, tracksuits and back packs – I didn’t buy anything.

On flight SQ801 I found myself absorbed in the autobiography of Aisin-Gioro Pu Yi, the last Emperor of China. At the age of 3 in Nov. 1908, Pu Yi was taken from his mother at the behest of the Empress Dowager Tzu Hui, and became the adopted son of Emperor Tung Chih and the ritual heir of his cousin Kuang Hsu. A month later Pu Yi was the tenth ruler of the Ching Dynasty – a Dynasty that had assumed power nearly 500 years earlier, and had lived since that time in the Forbidden City. The extravagance, intrigue, corruption and brutality both within the Palace and outside it’s walls are astounding. At the age of 7 Pu Yi abdicated, but lived another decade within the walls of the Forbidden City; by his own admission a bullying, increasingly power hungry young man. Pu Yi became adept at politics at an early age, and also became increasingly influenced by the west through his tutor, Reginald Johnston, eventually studying in Oxford. I have kept the second half of the book to read on my return journey.

Returning to Singapore after only a month in China I have fresh eyes for the City-state. I noticed the Chinese signage, which thrilled me no end – here was another world that had existed right in front of my eyes. Singapore lies some 5 ½ hours flight due south of Beijing, but it is like traveling decades not hours. From the industrial, dark-coloured landscape of Beijing, Singapore is verdant, clean and ultra modern. I felt again that rush of excitement as I had back in June 1995 when I first arrived in Singapore with my suitcases, full of ambition and naivety.

What I hadn’t expected this time was to spend Friday evening at Eden Hall – the residence of the British Ambassador, Mr Alan Collins. The UK Parliamentary Trade and Industry Select Committee, lead by Martin O’Neill (MP), were visiting Thailand, Malaysia and Singapore to understand how these countries unilaterally negotiate Free Trade Agreements whilst remaining part of ASEAN. The MP’s told me that the UK is trading less and less with Asia, and concentrating more on Europe and the USA – this unfortunately bears out my own observations both in Singapore and in China. I urged a Scottish Executive, who will spend 3 months with the Singapore civil service, to look closely at the Central Provident Fund; the mandatory national savings scheme that encourages taking personal responsibility for ones healthcare and welfare. This scheme is so financially beneficial and transparent that expatriates like me actually elect to contribute – I wonder how many people arriving in the UK feel the same way about National Insurance.

On Saturday I went to the Vincent St. Paul church in Yio Chu Kang to share in the joy of Eliza, a Singaporean Chinese Catholic, marrying Osman, a second generation Turkish Australian Muslim – Singapore enjoys this amazing diversity. The celebratory dinner that evening for some 100 friends and family started with a Catholic blessing and ended with Turkish belly dancing. The long legged bleach blonde must have been under instructions from Eliza; wrapping a shawl around my waist and a tasseled cap on my head, dragging me on stage to dance hip to gyrating hip. How do I get into these situations! It was in the after glow of my belly dancing that long time friend and cousin of the bride, Jin, told me why the Beijing cab driver had probably laughed so hard when I asked to be taken to the “Ji cháng” – I may have said “Jí cháng”, which means “brothel.”

Brisk business was also done in Singapore, which reported a healthy 11.0 per cent increase in trade in February, reaching record levels of $11.3 billion, but the reality spoken of at Eden Hall, the wedding, and possibly in brothels, is that while the PERC survey ranked Singapore as the most comfortable place to live in Asia, the fresh business is taking place in China, Korea and Thailand. Derrick, Sonya and the EASTWEST team continue to make the most of Singapore being home to 6,000 MNC’s, and Shalu is making inroads into the education sector, but all of our clients including Nortel, Quantel, Inmarsat, want to sell into the China market. Over dinner on Sunday one friend spoke of leaving Singapore to work in Washington DC, one of starting a publishing business in America, and one has left to study in London – departing friends is the expatriate condition. As I get ready to head back to China for another 3 months, I know I will miss so many aspects of Singapore, but I am also excited about the history, scale and opportunities in China – I look forward to finishing ‘From Emperor to Citizen,’ as I go back from the board room to the class room for another three months.

Turandot – a western born China story

On the Wuman gate of the Forbidden City in Beijing, Princess Turandot in the Puccini Opera proclaimed to her suitors, “Anyone who seeks to marry me must answer three riddles, and if he fails he will die.” Luckily love affairs in China no longer carry such a hefty price, although according to the papers this week, girls are increasingly basing their selection of potential husbands on financial criteria. Traditional values of filial piety and romantic pursuit of the kind that Turandot sought are being tested by growing assimilation of western values and standards. This is nothing new of course, and one of the greatest aspects of being in Beijing for longer than a few weeks is that my classmates and I are starting to assimilate too.

After three weeks of lessons, the mist surrounding Han Yu (Chinese) is starting to clear; I can vaguely make out the landscape of the language. This week I went to the post office and bought a box, specifically asked for six stamps (you piao) to Europe and dispatched my sisters’ birthday present by airmail. I presented the right amount of money in response to the teller’s request. Before I got too carried away though, I had to get help from Nicole to talk with a man on the phone about viewing an apartment – the prospect of waiting in the wrong place at the wrong time was simply too great.

‘More spacious housing’ reads the sidebar in the newspaper as Beijing people enjoyed a doubling of their housing area from 7.72m² to 18.7m² over the last decade. 20 million² is being completed each year, and I have been to see a few metres² of the apartments built before this boom; pretty grim. Last night Wang Jue, funnily enough a postman, showed me his 4^th floor single bedroom flat which had: standard issue single gas ring stove, cold water tap, all-in-one toilet cum shower, large bed with incontinence covering and an ADSL modem perched on a glass topped table. Was I interested? – it would only cost me RMB1,500 (US$180) per month. Bu Yao (not want). I also saw a very tidy three-bed apartment with earth brown sofas with no surfaces to place food on, lived in by a shy American guy. I want to live with a Chinese person to practice my Chinese, I want to assimilate, but I am asking myself just what price I am willing to pay for the experience. I decided to forget this problem for one night, by going to the Opera on Friday night.

When the orchestra played the ‘Jasmine flower’ refrain my friend Su and I looked at one another, surely this was the Nesan Dorma, famously sung by the three tenors at the World Cup. Sure enough Puccini composed Turandot in 1920 and it has many adaptations, both in the score, story and applications. I first experienced Turandot in Singapore and was struck how different the play was. Deng Min (Turandot) and Huang Bingquiang (Calaf) were younger, and more passionate singers, musicians and dancers than the Singaporean actress and German actor. In this adaptation failed suitors were marched off-stage and their hats brought back on moments later, while in Singapore it was sanitized. The costumes were simply stunning; full Mongolian outfits for Timur and Calaf and Palace finery for Turandot and her entourage. In Singapore Calaf wore a naval uniform. The performance ran for 2 ½ hours without a break and I wondered if this was because the director feared the audience would not return, or they had not seen the opportunity of selling refreshments. In Singapore at the Esplanade well-heeled people sipped champagne and mineral water during intermission.

After the performance the six of us went to a Belgian restaurant, full of westerners and a few Beijing people, enjoying moderately expensive Belgian food in dimly lit surroundings. I asked Nicole why Chinese restaurants are always ablaze with florescent lighting. ‘Why would you not want to see your food?’ she replied. And of course it is true, that often in western restaurants one looks at lovingly prepared food in the glow of a candle and washed over by the taste of wine.

I left the others heading onto one of the many trendy new bars, and returned before curfew, excited about seeing Chang Cheng (the great wall) early on Saturday. Much in China has been defined by the need to defend itself from outsiders, and the Great Wall was built by Emperor Qin ( ) to halt the advances of the Mongol Ghengis Khan. The wily Khan allegedly observed “a defense is only as secure as the men who defend it” and small bribes were sufficient to render the wall of limited use. Instead it became a well worn passage for traders as it spanned from X to Y – a distance of X,000 miles. Walking along the wall as it snowed magically, I thought of the sad futility of the wall being built in Jerusalem to separate peoples in Palestine, and of the tragedy of the bombing in Spain this week.

How quickly we get the news from the world, terrorism sharing the headlines with the impeachment of the Korean president and end of the Communist Peoples Political Consultative Conference (CPPCC) in Beijing. The CPPCC is a national advisory body that discusses issues such as ‘scientific approach to development,’ ‘people first,’ ‘agricultural, farmers and rural problems,’ and ‘anti-corruption.’ The Chinese Junior Writers Association, a body with over 1,000 registered under 18 year old authors, is debating how to position this vocal and rather extraordinary group. A full page of the China Daily was devoted to prodigies like Zhang Mengmeng who published a collection of essays at the age of 9 entitled ‘Let me tell you, I’m not stupid,’ and Han Han who has sold over 1 million copies of his first two books.

I doubt that my 50 word essay entitled ‘What I did on the weekend’ being prepared for the exam on Tuesday will warrant discussions at the CPPCC nor the Junior Writers Association. This is part of a nerve -wracking graduation process as we draw to the close of our 3 week course. I started as a complete beginner, and I fancy that my test scores may question if I have done any study at all. Now that I have been to the Beijing Opera and the Great Wall, I can write with some authenticity about two activities; even if they will be extremely short stories they will have to be in Chinese. I haven’t taken an exam for over a decade and it will be interesting to see if I can answer any of the questions, which no doubt will look like riddles to me. At least I don’t have Turandot as my examiner.

Cold Blooded Animals

Beijing Diaries 7^th March 2004

Realities struck this week. It was inevitable really that having been so upbeat in my first week, that Beijing would test my resolve in the second. Sickness, and the personal anxiety that comes with it in this SARS/Bird flu aware city, had me questioning who I am, what I am doing here so far away from family and friends, and whether I would ever be able to engage in simple dialogue with a taxi driver without having to hand my mobile phone to a helpful translator.

I hate being sick, I am not good at it, and I fancy men in general are not good at it. What can I do – just wait! I could stick to my plan, and doing things became just about impossible without needing to lie down again, quickly. Nicole, my tutor, kindly brought a thermometer that at least made me feel like I had a measure of the problem – 38.5°. We bought Chinese medicine that I couldn’t read, trusting that these sweet brown M&M sized pastels were doing some good, along with a black bitter liquid that comes in a vial and must be sucked through a surgical size straw to avoid tasting too much. Nicole and her friends, I called them the singing nurses, sweetly came round to perk me up in the evening, but during the day I was riven with self doubt: just what am I doing living in a shoe box at my age, what am I running away from, when will this end? Wonderful phone calls from Tim in Singapore, my team at EASTWEST, plus regular visits from my singing nurses and class mates kept me from leaving room 307 to wander Beijing streets.

Beijing has a poor reputation for health, a combination of factors contribute to this. The air here in winter is extremely dry; even though the temperature is below freezing, there is no frost. There is a fine dust constantly in the air – a combination of concrete and dirt from an urban landscape that has pursued development over vegetation conservation and that gets X rainfall over the winter months. The population of X million lives in close proximity, and hygiene standards still seem pretty poor – certainly the prevalence of spitting suggests that one of the key learnings from SARS has already been forgotten. I relented and went to an international health clinic, got antibiotics and am trying to be patient about the measle-like rash of itchy spots that broke out on my chest, sides and back. At least now I can give back the thermometer.

My class moved on without me, and got to buying oranges and sending parcels from the post office. Panic that I am falling behind has been tempered by a story in my constant companion, the China Daily, ‘Hangzhou mistaken for Huangzhou’ (25^th March). An elderly woman in Hunan province who wanted to travel to Huangzhou in Hubei province ended up 3,000 kilometers away in Hangzhou, in eastern China’s Zhejiang province. The difficulties of learning a language that has over 1740 characters (apparently there used to be some 40,000!) with four distinct tones and as many regional variations as a nation of 1.4bn people can manage, is sinking in. Initially there were a few of us in my class that hoped to learn just conversational Chinese, i.e. without Characters, but as this lesson of the pensioner proves, to be able to read could one day save me a long journey.

On Thursday Elea Beatrice Barton, niece number four, was born in Paris. What an amazing gift and I can’t wait to see her in June. Here in Beijing I see very few kids around, and as a former toy salesman, I noticed how small the toy department was in one of the large stores on Wang Fujing, the Orchard Road of Beijing. As one of the world’s largest toy manufacturing nations, it’s perhaps ironic that China may have one of the lowest percentages of children in its population.

‘Cold Blooded Animals’ were the warm up band at a new ‘Las Vegas meets Beijing’ style home brew bar, and definitely not for kids. Old Beijing hand Steve Schwankert told me the lead singer and guitarist was a reformed heroin addict, recently a father – I didn’t ask which came first. Thrash punk rock. The bass player had Marley-like dread locks and great stage presence. About 150 people, many dressed in black suit jackets and some with ties on, came to hear China’s answer to Aerosmith, called ‘Tang Dynasty.’ A 5 piece all male band with amazing guitar playing but a very short set of some 25 minutes, leaving stage just as people were taking off their ties. CD’s were on offer at 50RMB (US$10) but I didn’t see any being bought. Pirate CD’s and DVD’s are sold openly for RMB10 or even RMB5. Apart from the RMB80 that punters paid to watch, I suspect neither the Animals nor the Dynasty were going to get rich from selling CD’s. Still the music was great, and with a few expatriates in the crowd, I was reminded how music transcends culture and language; even if we couldn’t sing along.

At midnight, we got in the cab, and I felt the week had nearly been a washout. I told the cab to take us to YŭYán Dàxuė (language university) and to my surprise, he understood me; admittedly on my second try. But still – we were heading back to the dorm without having to call someone for help – a small but definite victory. I was pleased that I had signed up for another 3-month course, starting in March. As Mao began the long march, it was apparently said, ‘every long march starts with a first step.’