Hello! Racist?

Thanks for the encouragement, comments and support. A couple of questions came in these past few days:

“KJ, what do Chinese do when it rains?” – Brian, South Africa

Great question Brian. They get wet!  (will answer this question in another blog)

“Just wondering KJ, do you often encounter racism in your daily life here in China?”  – Tom, Canada

Another really interesting question. Thanks Mike. This leads to today’s topic:

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The picture above was taken by a friend in an lift across town. The elevator accesses a gym frequented by many Guangzhou-based foreigners. Curious, my friend scanned the QR code attached to the sticker and found a link to a dubious website. No one seems to know who put the sticker there but judging by the site’s content, it was mostly likely an expat.

I’m not going to provide a link to the site. Why?  Because it’s a site that purportedly supports expat rights but seems as much a vehicle for hate-speech as anything else. Let’s not mention the frequent spelling mistakes in the site’s blog posts (shock horror!). It should be easy enough to find if you’re really interested.

Flimsy journalism backed with dodgy statistics – yuck. A sample size of ten does not “maketh” an accurate result!  The message boards are worse. Swear words, some I’ve never heard before, describing people of both Asian and European descent. I guess this partly helps answer Tom’s question. People are free to rant and rave under the cloak of anonymity and often true feelings come to the surface. People complain about being “helloed” everywhere they go here. Some Chinese get annoyed about being “Ni haoed” too, especially those with advanced levels of English. Africans appear by far to get the worst treatment.

I’ve noticed a degree of unintentional racism here. China is still so homogenous, so completely Chinese, that your brown / blond / red hair and white / dark skin will make you stand out. The locals are simply not yet used to foreigners. My daughters get a lot of attention from people, most of it admiring and very kind. Their eyes, skin, hairstyles (and inevitable shyness from the attention) get remarked upon. “Can they speak Chinese?”  “How about English?”  “Can they speak at all?”

People point at my nose. One little boy took his fingers and tried to stretch his mini-snout, hoping to equal mine in size. No show on that score buddy. I’ve been called a few rotten names over the years (it’s funny how one remembers the insults) but I think people are generally pretty nice to me. The loud “helloooooos!” and mocking of my Chinese used to grate. Then I discovered meditation. Thanks Headspace. I might have said one or two naughty things to one or two Chinese people here too… some time ago. None of us are robots.

So Tom, is there racism here in China?  Yes – lots of it. But I think we’re all guilty of it at some level or another.

 

 

 

 

Ahmed and Mustafa

French wine is very famous. Wine is a kind of beer.

Mike, 13, Guangzhou in speech given yesterday.

 

Good Monday morning. Hope your weekend was a great one.

I was at the chalkface for much of mine (I’ll create a “breakout blog” with the name Chalkface soon). It meant I got to see people going to work and one or two colourful characters coming home late. Most seemed to know who I was which was a little bit awkward. Especially when they asked after my wife and daughters. Fine I said. What was I supposed to ask them in return?  How’s Granny? (“What Granny?“)  How are your kids? (“I’m not married!”).

Some of my fellow passengers may have been drunk.

But not Ahmed and Mustafa of the 42nd floor!

They are a couple of friendly Iraqis that buy and sell clothes in the large wholesale clothing market nearby. This place really is the U.N. of the city with foreigners of all shapes, sizes, colours, and dispositions.

It was a Saturday evening, after 10, when I arrived home from a lesson. Mrs Too-Cheap-to-Buy-Her-Own-Carpark (long story) had returned and was waiting on minus one. She’d closed the doors from the carpark to the lift lobby which was a little bit irritating. It necessitated a deep-sea bag dive for house keys and the attached microchip which allows access to this area. It added another ten seconds to my journey home. She was on her phone.

We stood there in silence, well I did. She carried on her conversation. Suddenly a loud banging noise came from the direction of the locked doors. I walked over to meet the angry bashing and saw our two Iraqi friends through the glass pane. They looked relieved to see a friendly face. “Thank you my friend” said Ahmed. Mustafa kept his head down as they walked towards the lifts. There Ahmed spotted his object of opprobrium.

“Hey, why you close de door?!”

It was not clear whether Mrs Too-Cheap understood his words or could even speak English. She seemed unthreatened or simply unaware, and ignored him

“There’s no need!  Leave the door open.”  He was really hot under the collar. By the way,  nice salmon-pink shirt Ahmed. Good style.

“How are you?” He asked, smiling at me.

Great thanks” I said as a tribe of strangers poured out of Lift B.

You’re up close and personal in an elevator. Sometimes too close. I was sandwiched between the two Iraqis and standing behind Frau Frugal. As Mrs Too-Cheap alighted, Ahmed flashed a white-teeth grin. His dark eyes sparkled.

How are you?”  he said in a thick Middle Eastern accent. The kind of accent a Western actor might try to adopt when playing the role of an Arab in some B-movie.

Fine thanks. Say, where are you from?”  I replied.

“Iraq. Baghdad. You?”

“New Zealand” I offered.

“Ah New Zealand, very beautiful. How are you?”

Are you kidding me?  You’ve asked me that question three times now. It’s turning into a kindergarten-level English class.

“(Exactly the same as I bloody well was 30 seconds ago) Fine thanks. That’s a nice shirt you’re wearing. Nice colour too.”

 

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Cool!

The shirt clings to his muscular body well. You can see why apparel companies are so keen for athletes to endorse their products. I’m not sure Ahmed is an athlete. Mustafa certainly isn’t. There seems to be a league of Arab nations that plays soccer nearby. He doesn’t seem to understand my comment until I point at his shirt.

“Ah, yes. You can have it if you want?” He moves to unbutton his shirt. He is literally about to give me the shirt off his back. I am not sure whether this was his way of having a little joke or an Iraqi attempt at friendship. In any case, his kind offer is refused. We’ve arrived at my floor and I bid them farewell.

I haven’t seen them again. This might have been the first time I’d met someone from Iraq. I hope it’s not the last.

 

 

 

 

The Daily Commute

You can’t beat the feeling!  The stupor of a broken night’s sleep coupled with a long wait. The lifts take an extraordinary amount of time to arrive this morning. We watched Lift C pass our floor on its way up and stop at the floor above us. Oh no not the 36th floor!  I briefly mentioned them in the Neighbours…. post a couple of weeks back. They take forever to get into the lift and take their tank of an electric bike with them. The girl loudly slurps milk through a straw. Maddening. Thankfully we got Lift B today.

Mrs. Tai Chi and her daughter are inside the lift. It’s awkward to share a lift with them as Mrs. Tai Chi is either arrogant beyond belief or (more likely) painfully shy. It’s not easy to differentiate sometimes. You get a half-hearted-hello-you-speak-first-and-only-then-will-I-talk-happily greeting. The daughter slouches against the wall looking like she’d rather be in bed.

Four people in the lift.

We stop at the 23rd floor and in steps James and his dad. James is one of my students and quite a hard worker despite his lack of “finishing”.

“Hello James”

“Grunt”

Six people in the lift.

We’re descended a level before three people I don’t recognise get into the lift. They look tired. Everyone remains quiet.

Nine people in the lift.

And we’re off to the races as we hurtle towards the ground. Oh… nope. We’ve stopped at the 15th and a young woman enters. She looks professional. I don’t recognise her. She is sneaking a glimpse of Miss K in the reflective doors. We arrive at the eighth floor. In hops Cici (pronounced Sissy) – another one of my students and her ever-cheerful mother. She’s the same age, eight, as Miss K.

Twelve in the lift. Someone has bad breath. I think it might be the old man wearing a trendy orange Under Armour t-shirt.  His face is merely inches from mine.

We have a spring outing today!” declares Miss K. I hadn’t heard her talk proactively to anyone in an elevator since we’ve lived here. Suddenly the ice is broken and people are chattering away about the weather and spring outings. Mrs. Tai Chi’s daughter plus James and Cici look crestfallen. Their school has already had their spring outing. Their faces show it  – just another boring day at school. Another three people enter the lift.

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Fifteen sardines trapped in an elevator. Imagine if it broke down. We had 16 people yesterday. I think the record might be 22.

“It’s raining today” someone offers by way of consolation “which means it doesn’t really count as a fun outing.”  Spoil sport.

The lift capacity record remains unbroken as we reach the first floor. Miss K is unperturbed by the rain and her excitement is palpable as she skips to school. Wary looking parents and busy office workers all head out the front gate in anticipation of the day ahead.

This is a typical day in the Block Six lifts. We weren’t attacked by bandits nor did Superman save us from impending doom. It did however offer an insight into a little slice of humanity going about its daily life.

That’s the final blog of the week. There will be more posts next week. Thank you for your continued support.  Have a super weekend.

 

Pee in a Pod

Lifts become funny places after dark. They take on a different “feel” once most people are home, snuggled in their apartments for the evening. There are those that head downstairs for an evening walk but by 10pm, things get pretty quiet. The cleaner has gone home too.

This might explain the prevalence of rubbish, cigarette ash, and mud inside the elevators during the late hours. We arrived home late the other night and we preoccupied with getting the kids to bed. Eagled-eyed Miss K spotted a liquid substance in the corner of Lift C.

Someone has spilt their orange juice in the corner of the lift!” She said excitedly.

We looked closer. It didn’t seem like the 100% pure orange juice brands that are so popular in the market place. It didn’t smell like orange juice either, more like strong, salty vegetable soup. Too much information?  I’ll go on.

Perhaps it’s apple juice, Daddy?

Um, maybe, but apple juice doesn’t smell like vegetable soup either.

Perhaps a pet dog went pee pee here?” She theorised.

Yes” I replied “but a dog doesn’t normally get its business halfway up the elevator wall.

The topic arbitrarily turned to something else as it often does with eight year olds – My Little Pony, or an incident in class that day. But my interest was piqued. I’d once overheard primary school boys bragging about piddling in a lift but thought it that – braggadocio. Lifts stop pretty quickly and it would make an embarrassing situation if a male was caught by others midstream. How could one possibly explain the situation?

Um, sorry…. just watering the pot plants” (?)

As I mentioned above, it was after 10pm and someone might have felt a little emboldened. Perhaps they’d had a bit of liquid courage and were caught short. Maybe it was a dare?  Maybe it wasn’t anything other than spilt soup splashed 1.5 metres up a wall… but I was reminded of this incident (below) that occurred in Chongqing earlier in the year.

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Apparently he managed to short circuit the electrics and stop the lift. He was left to stew in his own juices (in pitch black darkness too) for quite some time before technicians rescued him!

Thanks for your comments and feedback. It is nice to see viewers from different parts of the globe. Your viewership is much appreciated.

Cheers, KJ