There’s nothing like a good listener. One who really understands what you’re trying to say. You look into their eyes and know that there is a connection. They’re not thinking of what to say next, or looking over your shoulder, or checking their phone. I’ve found that Chinese are remarkably good listeners with a natural curiosity. You’ll find that they ask intelligent questions and prod deeper if they find something amiss or out of place with what you’re saying.

Then there are the over 65s. I’ve met a few that were university educated and once held professional positions. They are great to chat with as they can form their own opinions and don’t believe all the propaganda promulgated via the media. However the majority of this generation had a fairly tough time growing up and missed out on many opportunities that the later generations enjoyed.  The old Li Wan District, where this blog is set, is home to many true-blue elderly Cantonese. They’re loud, brash, and don’t give a hoot about politics. They’re interested in more pressing problems like home economics (the price of this week’s cauliflower) or helping family members. Many cannot communicate well in Mandarin.

I’ve included a conversation with a grandmother that occurred in Lift B last week. She was bringing her granddaughter home. We’ve known each other for about three years  and it made me question our entire history together (translated from Mandarin):

KJ (me):  Hi, long time no see!

Gran: Ha ha, long time no see!

KJ: I see your granddaughter has just finished school for the day.

Gran: Yes, she’s finished school for the day.

KJ: How are her studies progressing?

Gran: Good.

KJ: That’s good. I saw her old kindergarten classmate recently. Actually I teach him nowadays – Chen Han Ling, remember him?  He’s still very naughty.

Gran: Good.

KJ: What are your plans now?  Is there lot’s of homework to do?

Gran: Good.

KJ: (confused and getting out of the lift) Um… bye.

Gran: Ha, ha, bye.

I don’t think she understood a word of mine. I don’t think she has ever understood a word of mine. Ah (he writes sobbingly), to think of those many wasted moments with  her discussing metaphysics, game theory, theology, and the existential meaning of life….

It’s not very nice to call someone Mrs. Pigeonface. I can hear my late mother’s voice with a mild “It’s not becoming of you” rebuke. It’s probably not very PC to liken someone’s appearance to a pigeon either. Mrs. Pigeonface doesn’t even look like a pigeon, much.

The thing is, there are probably much harsher descriptions for this 11th floor woman (and her six year old son). Apartment living means that you’re living in close proximity to a whole bunch of different people. You don’t get to choose who these people are. Some are friendly, cultured, and even outgoing. Others are more reserved, preferring to keep to themselves. You don’t really mind what they are like so long as they can behave themselves in an enclosed space for what really is a small amount of time.

We have quite a bit of history, Mrs. Pigeonface, son, and I. Her kid (let’s call him Horace) goes to the same school as Miss K. We’ve seen Madame Pigeonface and Horace galloping erratically, if pigeons can gallop, down the road on the way to school. They’ll stop to admire a kitten, a flower, a large advertisement, have a laugh, play peek-a-boo, or tie up shoelaces before charging forth all over again. This sequence is repeated several times – often on the same journey! She’s invested in a bicycle with a small Horace carrier which has rendered her even more of a threat than before. Balance doesn’t seem to be her thing. Just ask the vendors lining the narrow lane near the school.

Mrs. Pigeonface and Son (sounds a bit like an fishmonger) have mastered the Delay n’ Dash – the subtle art of delaying entry to an elevator just long enough till the doors begin to close, then bashing your way inside with all the grace of a rugby prop. They’ve also pioneered the Surge and Stop – the exit-first-at-all-costs method of lift departure followed by an abrupt stop a metre from elevator to check mobile phone. This guarantees a small jam behind you.

We encountered them yesterday in Lift B. Horace’s perfectly executed Delay and Dash nearly wiped out my daughter. He decided to press the close door button, even though my finger already occupied this space. I told him so too. Horace ignored me and pushed my finger off  (the temerity of it!) as the lift carried on its merry descent. Mrs. Pigeonface absent-mindedly rummaged through her bag and Horace edged closer to his reflection in the doors. His mouth began to take on a different, deliberately grotesque shape. Slowly, one large wobbling, perfectly-formed saliva bubble appeared from his mouth. It clung to his lips, taunting us until it popped, as if on cue, as we arrived at level one.

They lurched forward, crashing into others exiting from Lift A. There was no Surge and Stop this time but a slow hand-in-hand stroll that irritated the living daylights out of the 20-odd time-pressed people behind them. Mrs. Pigeonface and Horace looked happy and that was the main thing. A tender and loving moment between  mother and son.

Perhaps ignorance really is bliss.

Thank you for taking the time to read my blog. Feel free to leave a comment. Hopefully you won’t need to go through the rigmarole of registering beforehand. Have a good weekend.

Have you ever thrown anything from a great height?  Perhaps from an office window or hotel balcony?  Ever launched leftovers, slung scraps, tossed tissues or projected pot plants?  Worse things have been hurled from Chinese apartment blocks, much to the alarm of those in the gardens below.

The Internet is full of such accounts. Air-conditioners, glass vases, meat cleavers, and other unusual items have been biffed from above (falling at dangerous speeds) to paths,  pavements, streets, shrubs, and people beneath. Writing personally, I’ve collected a bit of soapy water and a rubbish bag or two – usually from a lower level abode and it ain’t fun!  I’ll admit to hurling a bucket of water from my eighth floor apartment over 16 years ago. This was to address the problem of four 3am revellers singing an extended rendition of the Mickey Mouse Club theme. I aimed my H2O at a safe distance from them and SPLASH!  No-one was injured, and the concert ended abruptly. I was awarded a public service medal for my efforts.

Last month China Daily reported that a three month old girl was in coma due to being hit in the head by a falling apple. She was in a Shenzhen hospital undergoing brain surgery. Little Fanfan had been out for a walk in the garden with her grandmother when the incident occurred. Apparently the villain was an 11 year old girl that lived 24 floors above. It was a terrible accident caused by the innocuousness of throwing a half-chewed apple out to her dog on the balcony. The apple slipped through the cracks and the rest, they say, is history.

You’d think that the adults in our compound (including my own Block Six) would have enough common sense regarding good balcony behaviour. One look at the gardens below our building tells a very different story. The amount of ‘stuff’ that ends up among the plants is quite surprising including: socks, pyjamas, small bottles, plastic, nappies / diapers, wastepaper, toilet paper, shoes, and food wrappings. Who is responsible for the cheeky chucking?  Perhaps it’s the kids who find it funny to discharge Duplo blocks from  the dreamlands, or catapult clothes pegs and hangers from kingdom come. It’s no wonder that someone from some department posted the following announcement in our lifts:

It’s fairly obvious that sticks and stones (and empty metallic water bottles) will break bones and cause death if dropped from a reasonable height. But what about eggs and fruit?  Mahjong tiles?  Goodness me, I’d never thought that such inoffensive items could become murderous. It reminds those of us that need to walk daily underneath tall buildings (that may include you dear reader) that life is so very fragile. Indeed one could imagine the ridiculousness of the news headlines:

Expat felled by watermelon peel. Friends say he was one in a melon. 

Popular local man Mr. Wang erased by egg. Onlookers shell-shocked.

Thanks for reading my little blog posts. I’m eggs-pecting a few food puns over the coming days.

Now that’s food for thought!

Weekends are funny times to be in Chinese elevators. People are busily coming and going. Kids slouch off to extra-curricular lessons, workmen carry tools upstairs to continue unfinished work, oldies return from riverside walks, grandparents take toddlers to the playground, and newcomers visit Block Six relatives and struggle with the swipe-card floor access. I see all this and more on my journeys to and from lessons.

At 11:30 on Saturday morning, Miss K (my older daughter) and I were waiting for a lift to take us to the underground carpark. Lift A (it’s always Lift A darn it) arrived from the 45th floor already carrying Ms Tall and her two miniature versions of mummy. We exchanged pleasantries and she was surprised to learn after six months of polite conversation that I teach. Oh good I thought, perhaps I can drum up some extra business – her kids were my in target market segment.

The lift stopped at the 29th floor.

The doors opened but the floor appeared to be empty. Seconds passed and we attempted to shut the doors before an elderly couple muscled their way in with no apologies offered for the slow entry.

Ah, Mrs Battle-axe and her beleaguered husband. I’ve seen her before, the purple hair dye masking an undergrowth of grey roots. She’s short, compact, and forever grumpy.  I smiled and offered a “Ni hao” greeting. No response. The husband carried a pretty box with a transparent top revealing a roast suckling inside. It was not apparent whether this piglet was their lunch or something to be offered up at an elaborate ancestor worship activity in the city outskirts.

“Have you got the keys?” She barked in Cantonese.

“Um no, I forgot” he replied while unsuccessfully trying to reopen the doors of the now- moving lift.

“You bl–dy b—–d!”  She roared, spittle flowing forth like lava from an erupting volcano. The kids (both Ms Tall’s and mine) hid behind the taller adults. The lecture continued: “You’ll have to head upstairs and get them you useless loser!  You’re a  #$%$#% moron!”

The roast piglet looked on.

With public humiliation complete, the husband mumbled something rude about his wife’s sterling personality before they (plus suckling) alighted on level one. Presumably they were going to take another elevator back upstairs.

Ms Tall, visibly shaken, and with the topic of education long-forgotten, attempted to clear the air by remarking on what wonderful weather we were having. They trailed the unhappy couple out to the lobby leaving Miss K and I in the lift. As we continued our ride to the basement level I asked what she made of the terse exchange (she is fluent in Cantonese and very used to the boisterous nature of Canto-speak). She said simply:

“That old woman was very rude but that roast chicken looked nice!”

(To the tune of “This Old Man”)

Neighbours are big, neighbours are small,

Neighbours like jogging and basketball,

Neighbours are cute, neighbours are tall,

I like my neighbours one and all!

(lyrics lifted and altered from a local English primary school textbook)

There are 46 floors in Block Six. Each floor has four apartments. If you do the math then that’s 184 apartments in the building. If an average dwelling houses four people, then that’s well over 700 people residing in our tower. Gee, that’s the size of a small New Zealand settlement right there.

During the course of time, I hope to introduce you some of our neighbours. There’s Mr. Optimist (46th floor) who is always smiling and happy. The dear Old Dears, both retired teachers, well into their 80s who do everything together (27th floor), Mr. Liang on the 19th floor. He used to be a principal at a school I worked at until he retired. He’s having heart trouble nowadays which is a shame considering his love for biking and swimming. There’s an earnest young man on level three. I’ve named him Ernest as everything is said   with such conviction:

“I go to the Guangzhou Business Vocational School” or “I am now going to my violin lesson yes.”

There’s a factory of kindergarten kids (five of them) that periodically appear and stir up trouble. My heart sinks when the lift stops at the 29th floor. It’ll be a long ride down with the pushing and general naughtiness being displayed by this quintet.

A few foreigners live here too. Some Iraqis, Yemenis (unfailing polite people), and a mysterious tall blonde woman. She only appears on occasion, usually at night. Who is she and where is she going?

An honourable mention goes to the family living directly above us (36th floor). It’s great fun dragging heavy wooden furniture around the living room at 3am most days isn’t it?  Please drop your mahjong chips on the floor again, it makes quite the sound.

To end today’s post, I’ve included one of the advertisements from Lift C. This is clearly aimed at all the supermothers living in Block Six.

Hi there!  Welcome to my blog about life in lifts (a.k.a elevators). Life is one of ups and downs in the Block 6 lifts. We’re on the 35th floor but there are many living above us and  even more living below. The confined space of a lift is a great opportunity to converse with neighbours, delivery guys, security guards, cleaners, or even the maintenance man.

There are three lifts, each with its own distinct personality. For the purpose of this blog, I’ve named them (from left to right as you face them) A, B, and C. No cute names here. Lift A is a stinker. It’s the cargo elevator and carries the heavy goods (furniture, bricks, plants, household refuse, workmen) to and from the apartments. It sometimes smells bad. I’ve included a photo below:

This blog aims to explore a micro-cosm of contemporary Chinese society.  It’s not limited to elevators, human interaction (lift rides can be solitary endeavours) or Chinese culture. No, it’s limited to the musings and worldview of a lift passenger who often thinks silly things on many levels – both figuratively and literally. I’ll try to post my observations a few times a week.

Enjoy the ride!