Tag: Elevator

Lifts: Judging A Book By Its Cover

 

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“…for inside those tattered pages, there’s a lot to be discovered” – Stephen Cosgrove

We all do it.

It’s hard not to. Yes – judge others. We see someone in an elevator and leap to some conclusion about who they are, what their values might be, their manners or lack of, financial status, their hometown and the behaviours typical of people from these places etc. etc. We might have seen the car they’ve just parked downstairs (“Oh, he drives an expensive model Volvo”, “She drives a beaten up Ford Fiesta”) and make judgements about their personalities based on these thoughts.

We can be correct in our judgement. Kids who push past lift-entering seniors display a clear lack of family education. Boys (and girls for that matter) who think it cute to flip the bird and swear like troopers adds further evidence to our rapidly conceived perception that they are indeed little buggers. You’re unlikely to invite the workman to afternoon tea when he has just cleared the contents of his nose all over the elevator floor.

It’s harder to judge those lift passengers that don’t make eye contact or smile. Why are they frowning?  Are they arrogant?  Do they have a superiority complex or are they of the cold-hearted ilk, y’know – the ones that might go off for a sandwich while you lie bleeding to death somewhere, desperately in need of aid?

There were a couple of incidents that occurred last week that reminded me not to jump quite so quickly to conclusions.

One

An old lady was pushing a small child some distance behind me as I entered the elevator. Being a good citizen, I held the door open for her walked slowly to, and then causally manoeuvred the pushchair in, the elevator. She didn’t look at me. On the short duration to the 12th floor I thought of all the things I could write about her on this blog. Her lack of manners or respect for others, the fact that her grandchild was likely to form the same bad habits as she and so on. Were her adult children as rude as her?  What was the future of Chinese society if everyone forgot to say thank you, please, and sorry?  A vision of self-centered and narcissitic hell?

The lift stopped at her floor and she tried to exit. The clumsily-designed pushchair took a while to move forward. I held the door and tried to make things as easy for her as possible (all the while thinking negative things about her lack of appreciation). She headed out behind the pushchair and stopped, turned to face me and paused to say: “Thank you very much!”. I almost fell over with surprise.

Two

A nouveau-rich couple also earned my scorn for being aloof and standoffish. They never said hello or made small talk whenever we met in the lift. I formed an unfavourable impression of them and created a storyline with them as the central characters:

Poor couple from destitute village suddenly acquire great wealth when a developer buys their land and offers a generous compensation. This was like winning the lottery. They buy an apartment in our compound and use the left over money to purchase a Mercedes Benz SUV. They’re new-rich. They don’t need to speak to commoners anymore.

I encountered them by the elevator lobby in the carpark.

“Excuse me, is this yours?” the man asked.

 

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My daughter’s iPod. She would have killed me had I lost it.

In his hand was an expensive Apple iPod recently purchased in the United States. Indeed it was mine (my daughter’s actually). It had fallen out of my backpack as I was looking for my house keys. Someone could easily have pocketed that little item. I was surprised by his honesty and her pleasant nature. We got chatting and it turns out they have a child about to enter my daughter’s school over the road. We have plenty of other things in common too. They seemed educated and now present a cheerful smile whenever we meet. The immortal words of a primary school teacher rang true in my ears:

Don’t judge a book by its cover!

STOP PRESS: As this blog was about to go live, another incident occurred which reminded me not to judge others. Our upstairs neighbours have, at times, driven us nuts with a litany of minor offences involving noise and movement at strange hours. We had a typhoon on Friday morning with flooding everywhere. The wind sent the rain sideways and rendered umbrellas and raincoats pointless. I’d dropped off my daughter by the school gates and was strategising the best way home (through the crowds of umbrella-wielding folk). The  journey looked bleak with large puddles, overflowing drainpipes, and other obstacles lying in wait. What luck! The upstairs neighbours just happened to be passing by in their large BMW. They stopped and motioned me to jump in. Their choice of out-dated jerky techno music was particularly funny (“Jump on down to the funky sound!”) but the car was spotless and they were friendly. I got home a lot drier than otherwise. A big thumbs up to them.

Thanks Mr. Girvan. Don’t judge a book by its cover.

PS:  There are some exceptions to the rule. I was sneezed on last night by a construction worker. I felt particles on my forearm. He didn’t seem to understand what he’d just done. There was no apology, only a blank stare. I formed a judgement about him.

 

 

 

 

 

Odds and Sods: The Peculiarities of a Chinese Elevator

Ernest

Ah, Ernest (Neighbours….). A bespectacled high school kid of about 17 who lives on the third floor. I’m not sure his name actually is Ernest but it suits him. It takes him longer to wait for the elevator than to climb the three flights of stairs back home. His spoken English is very good though he’s rather serious – like a 1960s news anchor. He tends to over-stress words like I and am. This is a shame as it gives him (an unintentional) air of self-importance. Contrary to many of the youth here, he has very good manners and holds the door open for little old ladies (and me).

His listening needs some work.

“Are you looking for your keys Ernest?”

“Oh hi hello, I am looking for my keys”

“Ok, we’ll go first then – we’re sort of in a rush… sorry”

(5 seconds later) “You don’t need wait for me, you go first”

Or:

“Where are you going Ernest?”

“Ha, yes that’s right”

Mad Tappers

These are fidgety young men from rural areas who can’t seem to stand still for the short time it takes to reach the ground floor. They shift restlessly between feet, a little dance in motion. A cell phone will be consulted, stashed away and again removed from pocket – all within 15 seconds. A mad tapper will often move right up to the lift doors and check out hair, eyes, mouth, teeth, pimples…. You wonder why they’re so antsy. Their conduct is akin to the nine year old boy who has just been informed of a trip to Disneyland –  next summer.

Roving DJs

Old men in white vests who haven’t yet learned the wonders of modern technology. A 20 year old transistor radio. hung from a belt, can broadcast a mixture of Cantonese opera, revolutionary anthems, or traditional folk. Like any good DJ, they’re loud and largely ignorant to those in their immediate environment. Some roving DJs turn off the wireless before taking a lift, some don’t. Do you think that you’d like to be held captive in an elevator with piercing operatic sounds? Yes? Well then, consider first the words of an experienced Lonely Planet writer who once wrote that Cantonese opera is excruciating to Western ears.

The Jack in the Box

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A real waker-upper. Young men, or pushy middle-aged women, who alight the lift on the wrong floor therefore startling those about to enter. The Jack-in-the-box effect is caused by a combination of a mobile phone and positioning oneself right by the door. I was Jack-in-the-boxed last week by a twenty-something year old male who thought the 35th floor was the first floor.

The Surge

Those who enter the lift like a rebel army before you’ve had the chance to get out. Equal parts infuriating and panic-inducing. Happens surprisingly often.

Pick and Flicks

Once again, the elderly and toddlers. Involves: a nostril, an index finger (though little fingers with bayonet-length nail will suffice), and a twist.

 

Old Man’s River

“Keep it together man, just another floor or two to go, no-one is going to get in on our way up. The journey will be short. By all means decorate your door, wet your welcome mat, or throw up all over the threshold but open the floodgates once you get out. Don’t do it here.“

These were my thoughts last night.

What’s the strangest thing you’ve seen in an elevator?

We’ve seen pretty much everything in Chinese lifts except X-rated activity. Thank goodness. People here are still pretty conservative.

I got into the lift on the minus one carpark level and proceeded to the 35th floor. It stopped at one (the ground floor in British Commonwealth countries). In stepped a youngish woman and her father. She smiled and said hello. He slurred something to me and tried to keep his balance. They were going to the 20th floor.

He smelt like a distillery.

There was a little burp, a bubbling sound emanating from deep below. Being vomited on by a sick toddler is one thing, how about by a 70 year old man?  This was becoming a very real possibility.

The lift wall was his pillar, his bastion of support. He head slumped forward. We’re not going to make it. Or are we?

“Have you been out tonight?”  I winced at my own question. It was blindingly obvious they’d been out. They probably thought it was none of my business. It would quickly become my business if I wore his technicoloured treacle.

“Yeessssh” came his reply, sounding like a certain New Zealand prime minister of yesteryear.

Time slowed as it does when you’re exceedingly uncomfortable. His daughter looked worried. She seemed to have taken on a maternal role. I wondered if she had experienced this many times before. Certain parts of China seem to produce some of the hardiest drinkers in the world, up there with the Russians and Germans. I’ve also seen people turn pink after a glass or two of beer. Which category did he fall into?  Ironman or jellyfish?  Hooch hound or schlemiel?

He cocked his head, one-eyed, and looked in my direction. This is what a deer must feel like when he realises he’s in the hunter’s sights. The moment before impact, the calm before the storm etc. etc.

The lift stopped and dutiful daughter took him by the arm and led him out of the lift. There was a real urgency to her movement as she fiddled with the door keys. That was a narrow escape. As the lift doors began to close, I heard a sound…

SPLAAAAAAAAT!

A narrow escape indeed.

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

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.