The Chinese Kangaroo

They arrived a few short years ago. Now they’re an epidemic.

I’m referring to the legion of couriers in skin-tight fluorescent-yellow tops emblazoned with a Kangaroo logo. They zoom around the city on mopeds and scooters delivering meals to office workers and those people who don’t want to battle peak-hour crowds. It’s a great success by all accounts.

The service is called Meituan Waimai (Meituan Takeaways – a translation of sorts).

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Bloomberg estimated that the parent company Meituan Dianping was worth $30 billion (US) in October last year. The numbers are astounding. 256 million people used the service in 2016 with forecasts of over 400 million users this year according to Bloomberg. Over 1300 Chinese cities are in on the act with citizens near and far taking advantage of lightning-fast service from a man (almost always a man) on a bike delivering a hot meal. They also deliver groceries, massages, haircuts, and offer car washes while you’re working. Afterwards they’ll even park your car and take a photo (sent to your phone) as proof of a job well done.

It all sounds so impressive. And I guess it is. Whoever formed the company (someone called Wang Xing I’ve just discovered) will be richer than their wildest dreams. They’ve done very well in an ultra-competitive market.

But….

Some of us have to live with the Chinese kangaroo. You see, there are two sides to this fluorescent-yellow coin. You can get food delivered quickly when you don’t feel like walking the 200 metres to the actual restaurant. You don’t need to elbow your way to the counter or defend your space from queue jumpers. The meal is still warm and (usually) intact.

However the courier drivers might benefit from a bit of extra training. Road rules might be one place to start.

The Guangzhou Grade Two English Textbook offers a catchy chant in its section on transportation. Couriers (and drivers here in general) would be sage to take note:

Red at the top, you must stop,

Yellow in-between, get ready for green,

Green below, you can go!

The kangaroo drivers ignore red lights and often drive right in front of my moving car. There’s a swerve and they miss me. Everything is okay – till it’s not. Drivers also speed along footpaths and inside gated-compound paths putting everyone from toddlers to centenarians at risk. Not a day would pass without witnessing an act of risk-taking kangaroo idiocy.

I walked past one driver yesterday who looked at me as though I was an alien from a distant planet. His eyes were big and round as he studied me intently. Not a smile to be seen. He had parked his bike near Block Six and was presumably returning from a delivery. Minutes later another kanga-courier Jack-in-the-boxed an old lady as he got out of a lift.

A good friend, Mr. Halifax, put it in perspective – who would want a job racing around the streets of a Chinese city in 40 degree heat? Buffoon drivers added to the mix and it would make for a devil of a job, an unpleasant one for sure. Maybe he was right. Perhaps I should cut these marsupial daredevils some slack.

With this newly-acquired perspective, I stood next to a Meituan courier in Lift A this morning. He stood erect, helmet glowing flourescently. “You have a tough life” I thought. “You’re merely trying to earn an honest living. I can’t begrudge you for that.”

Whereupon suddenly he turned in my direction and sneezed all over my left arm.

Back to square one.

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Attack of the Killer Bicyles

The following report is taken from Anti-Bike Platoon Commander Helmut Schtrapp (2nd Lt.). We would like to commend the bravery shown by the members of his platoon.

– Lt. Colonel B. Handel-Barre (Pedal Regiment, Cycle Path Division) spokes-person for Anti-Bike Platoon.

Friday 0800hrs

The platoon was on patrol in the South Garden district when we were ambushed by a rag-tag collection of motley coloured bicycles.

They were uncoordinated and in disarray. My men were able to eliminate the cyclical threat in minutes. Curiously, a large queen-sized mattress seemed to be in command of this guerrilla movement. We don’t not yet know the link between mattress and bicycles, though one soldier timidly suggested it was the “town bike”.

Friday 0810hrs

The platoon secured the South Garden area and recommenced the patrol. We had moved 200 metres along South Coast Road when we encountered resistance from a pedal team. Platoon soldiers opened fire resulting in four enemy casualties and several enemy hostages.

Casualties lying on roadside. South Coast Road.

Friday 0815hrs

No sooner had we taken care of the enemy threat when we were attacked by the tandem forces of green and blue divisions. Our team fought hard but fatigue was becoming a real factor. We would need to back-pedal.

Friday 0825hrs

Someone got to these bicycles first. It was hard for some soldiers to get a grip of the situation. The general feeling among the platoon was of suspension.

Friday 0830hrs

Lance Corporal Armstrong spotted skid marks on the footbridge at the end of South Coast Road. Private Giant sighted enemy cycles under the bridge. Low on supplies, ammunition, and with fading morale, we decided to avoid confrontation with any more hostile elements. We moved up a gear and took the cycle path back towards the barracks.

Friday 0840hrs

Attacked from all sides. This was where the rubber met the road. Yellow “Ofo” division bicycles outflanked, out-sped, and out-out-manouevered the platoon. I ordered the soldiers to fire:

However this caused a chain-reaction as yet more bicycles appeared. Enemy combatants then moved into a formation which military historians might one day term the “pile o’bikes”. Platoon members were twisting ankles on spokes, tripping on crossbars, being maimed by mudguards, and getting tickled by two wheelers. The situation was dire.

Considering that the chain of command ended with me, I decided we should saddle up and beat a hasty retreat. We dropped our supplies and headed for the safety of the underground carpark where, exhausted, we could refuel and debrief.

Sirs, in regards to further patrol missions, it is recommended that our division apply the brakes in the interim. Any further provocations on our part will only lead to one very pumped up enemy and a vicious cycle.

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.

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:

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.”

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.

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

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