Chinese Masketeers

Mike and I hunched our shoulders and sped into the tunnel that led to the underground mall to seek refuge from the bitter Beijing cold. I reached out to lift the heavy double-layered insulating curtains that typically hung from most entrances in this city when I suddenly screamed. Something on the other side was panting unnaturally loud. The curtain lifted. Out of the dim tunnel emerged two determined eyes, a pink forehand, and a metallic contraption that shielded almost his entire face.

I was staring at a beanie-wearing Bane.

He really did look like this 

(without the overhead strap).

I think I freaked him out too. He was just another Beijing biker trying to find a warmer shortcut and wheezing heavily through his air filtration mask. He looked at us strangely, as if thinking we were crazy for not strapping on our own respiratory protection. But then again, I don't know if we would have been able to afford the several hundred USD worth of WWII-esque gas mask gear he sported. 

---

Air pollution is so bad in Beijing that BJ is experiencing somewhat of a brain drain because the smarties want to move somewhere where they can actually breathe. We Shanghai/ Suzhou-ers down south have  participated in the pollution frenzy by downloading the ubiquitous air pollution monitoring apps and comparing the daily stats officially released by the American consulate vs Chinese government. Some Chinese nationalists even made a big deal about the Americans purposefully stirring up local discontent by revealing the daily air pollution index. 

Normally it's more like "Woah - look how bad Beijing is today!" and we feel lucky. But today we Southerners are starting to feel the pain. 

We are officially in the HAZARDOUS category. Actually, correction - apparently, we overshot the upward bound and went beyond hazardous. Most apps freaked out and went blank today because they did not know how to classify 500 and above. Friends in my US college town, Provo, flipped when earlier inversion caused the air quality index to register 164 ("unhealthy") - 164 is more like a hallelujah here in Shanghai. We often reminisce about the good ol' days of 164 like that golden period of the magical beanie babies craze that nobody understood. 

The number of air quality index screen shots 

 trounced even that of self-conscious selfies today.

We typically look up at the crotch of the infamous

 "Pants Building" (aka the tallest building in our province

 upon completion) from our office. Above is taken on a

 beautiful summer day. Below is taken today.
Creds to Danica.

The ongoing air situation has bred some fascinating social phenomena. Soccer moms no longer brag all day about their children - now they engage in passive aggressive "whose air filtration mask is better?" comparisons, analyzing in excruciating detail the science behind pollution and mechanics of face masks. And instead of rare medicines or gold-plated busts, Chinese sycophants switched gears and gifted government officials with high end air filters, attached with poems about the importance of health. 

The radio is also full of jokes about the pollution. Here's one: Workers at the post office have been so desperate for clean air that they resorted to popping the bubble wraps on foreign packages and sucking in the fresh "imported" air . . .  until the postmaster sadly pointed out that the bubble wraps were made in China too.

Office portrait a while back. I think this time we were

 donning masks for the bird flu.

It's a Slaughter World After All

I have a legit neck phobia. Ever since I was a little kid, I have always been convinced that I will be murdered getting pierced through the throat with a javelin. Or hung like a limp doll off a lonely bridge. Or violently choked from behind because I beat somebody at a board game. So that one time, when a stranger kissed me on the neck in the Beijing metro, I freaked out and avoided public transportation for a week.

Ever since I started dating in college, I've gotten a lot better. As in, I don't flinch as noticeably when other people's hands hover dangerously close to my vulnerable zone. And I don't end up subconsciously slapping the boy who accidentally touched my neck because he was trying to be flirtatious.

Last weekend, I decided to overcome my fear once and for all by doing something that I had always imagined being done to me. It's sort of like getting somebody who was deathly afraid of heights to jump off an air plane. I was going to slaughter an animal by slitting its throat.

A bunch of us drove out to a turkey farm in Changshu to pick out our Thanksgiving bird. My mom asked me to bring one home so I was determined to take care of the turkey myself to feed my family. I was finally shedding my city girl skin and living a rustic vision of Little House on the Prairie.

As the cityscape faded into the lush patches of oversized leafy greens, I started feeling nauseated. I hunched my shoulders and retreated into my maroon hoodie - especially picked out to camouflage the blood I would inevitably get splashed all over myself - and fingered my swiss pocket knife. Would I be able to do a clean slit and spare unnecessary pain? Would the turkey, in its full ugliness, peck at my throat in retaliation? Can swiss army knives actually cut things other than fruit?

My first mistake was looking at him straight in the eyes. They were oddly intelligent and hauntingly dignified. Second mistake? Naming him Turk.

Getting a photoshoot with Turk.

Somehow Miles still manages to look good when

 caught mid-moment holding a turkey.

Turk

The farmer weighed our turkeys and I felt oddly proud that Turk was one of the largest at nine jing (roughly 5 pounds). He stuffed Turk and his buddies into a fertilizer bag and threw them into the back of the van. We drove to the slaughterhouse, chatting with the farmer about his new plans to start an orchard and listening to the turkeys nervously shifting in the trunk.

The lady at the slaughterhouse was really tickled to see so many foreigners. She started showing off her techniques and waved over other ladies nearby to help out with the turkeys. I clutched my pocket knife more tightly, unsure when it was my/ Turk's turn. The lady laughed and flicked her long hair back. She had another woman hold a squirming turkey, and she pressed the head down and starting snipping the throbbing neck vein with a pair of scissors. The turkey did a death thrash while its little heart beat faster and faster, pumping out the rest of its life. The lady swirled her little pinkie in the tin bowl she placed underneath the turkey to fish out any feathers in the blood (to sell for blood pudding later).

Watch this video and prepare a barf bag.

One of my friends jumped up next for an opportunity to wield the scissors. She hacked away with reckless abandon and lustful determination. She later explained to me that a boy had arranged for her to kill a duck for her birthday last year so she was experienced. Another twelve year-old little boy volunteered. By that point, the pair of dull scissors was slick with blood and didn't open and close very well so he ended up just jabbing at his turkey. The poor turkey cried.

I had come expecting to overcome my fear - but instead, I now have an additional nightmare scenario to add to my repertoire of death by throat scenes. I've never considered how scary scissors were before.

Slaughter lady at her finest. 

She had to steam it first to defeather it.

RIP Turk.

I had to snap his legs off. Utterly traumatized.

Btw - terrible blog post title, I know. I was playing a board game with the younger siblings tonight and the instruction manual came with ads for other board games. One of the advertised games had a slogan "It's a Slaughter World After All" . . . they ought to pay somebody professional to come up with a better one.

Alley Cats

We begged. We smiled. We reasoned. We flirted.

We did everything to persuade the gatekeepers to put out their cigarettes and sneak us into Tiger Hill after closing.

In China, where there's a will, there's always a way. And we willed our way in.

Playing host to my brother's mission companion, Shelby.

Tiger Hill at dusk.

The dark finally kicked us out of the park. We prowled around the underbelly of the bridges to the rumbling din of traffic overhead; our conversations of US military presence in Iraq echoing. The pedestrians had all pointed us to the same direction to the tourist lanes, straight down the cobblestone path, but we faltered mid way because we were unsure of all the run down houses with screeching doors that lined our sides. There was so much life, raw and unadorned, in the dinner time TV gatherings, in the butcher's call of end-of-the-day prices, and in the giggling children as they ran out for fresh air once last time before being tucked into bed.

But some lights were not dimming, probably not until late into the night, because the ladies inside were busily sewing beautiful evening gowns for those who would buy them without a second thought, threading through their exhaustion and stitching together hopes and possibilities for the little ones.

We also looked up and paused. While the sun illuminated all to show harsh reality, the moon was kinder, softening the rough edges of the crumbling rooftops, casting warm, rich halos on tired bridges.

Nights like this gave romantics of old more courage to write poetry. I relied on my lenses instead of words.

Guardian lions. I need one of those.

Shelby + Lesley. Best wandering companions.

After traveling to Mexico, Cambodia, and the US in the last month, switching desktops for backpacks or presentation microphones, home -- Suzhou -- still reminds me what catching my breath feels like.

Office Portraits

Marketing department decided that I would be part of the "Leadership Profile" portion of our company website (still under construction). Of course, I'm her boss, so maybe that's a factor. Definitely one of the funnest part of my job since the promotion four months ago. 

As it turned out, I had a terrible time working the professional look. It's supposedly some sort of serene Mona Lisa smile, mixed in with "I'm such a bomb manager" eyes. 

And, you know your eyes must be really small when other Chinese people told you to keep your eyes open while you were already doing your best to stretch those taunt eyelids beyond their God-given max. 

Caught mid-walk. 

Apparently too much attitude for clients.

I wanted to wear my boots at first. Vetoed by everybody.

Luckily, I keep a healthy shoe storage under my desk.

Flowy dresses are so distracting on a gorgeous windy day.

"Finally!" The photographer says. "One that works."

Patriotic Mobsters

On Friday, QQ was buzzing with posters that called for mass protests against the Japanese government's purchase of the disputed Diaoyu/ Senkaku Islands.

National fever burned hot. People were urged to bring their own banners and show their love for China. Most of the posters cautioned the masses to "demonstrate logically" - in small print. Instead, the mobs directed their pent up anger at Japanese stores, smashing and looting in many major cities. Rumor has it that many arrested looters sported ostentatious tattoos - signs that local gangsters infiltrated peaceful demonstrations to cause chaos. J bristled when he heard that his dream Lexus, probably a parked car belonging to one of the demonstrators, took literal beatings from incensed crowds. Apparently even some Japanese branded police cars got flipped and destroyed.

Face to face. Police and demonstrators.

On the main street where I typically go for my hot pot fixes.

Stores hung up the proverbial white flag, professing patriotism, or boarding up window displays to plead for clemency from angry mobs.

Jody's favorite Japanese noodle shop, Ajisan, strung up a desperate banner:

 "100% funded by Hong Kong. Same race. Same patriotism."

"Stopped selling Japanese goods. Please forgive us for any inconvenience caused."

- Suning, an electronics store

Yes. This is a tank. Made up of toothpaste boxes. 

The cutout boldly proclaimed that "Diaoyu Islands Belong to China!"

Oh and the box of patriotism that conveniently cleans your teeth

 as well is only sold for 2.8 RMB.

What a steal.

Tomorrow is 918. I expect even more scaled up demonstrations. Over lunch today, I casually mentioned to a colleague that I wanted to observe the protests and take photos. I had missed out last weekend because of girls' camp. He put his chopsticks down and solemnly warned me not to go. Apparently I looked Japanese. And that's not the most popular look right now.

. . . we'll see if I could get work off tomorrow.

Feigning

As my four inch heels hit the train platform, I nearly swore. But to use abbreviations while saying that "D*@#. China is so hot right now" will be a grossly understated injustice.

I breathed deep but came out unsatisfied. The humidity and the sweltering heat combined had my lungs screaming out for more oxygen or, as my coffee mug-toting, semi-bald, high school physics teacher would say,"Ox-why-jen, kids." The air molecules were lethargic, weighed down by the sour odor of bodies pressed against each other to get to the front of the line.

An odd case of deja vu reminded me of a shower I took years ago. I had stripped down, kicking my swim suit to the corner, while stepping into my friend's new shower. Beside the colorful shampoo bottles, there was a neat row of buttons. I pressed one. The shower encirclement locked with a sound of definity. Another button. Water jetted out. Too hot. With shampoo in my eyes, I punched another button. Blasts of hot and cold hit me from all directions. The steam rose. My lungs strained as I groped for a way to unlock the showers. For a brief moment, my impulse was to press my lips against the seam of the shower doors, in hope for a faulty job, for a crack through which I could just suck air. But embarrassment, heightened by the vulnerability of my soapy nakedness, forced me away from kissing the shower wall and back to slamming buttons.

And it was that same socialized decorum that prevented me from yanking the cigarette away from the man who lit up right in front of me in a snaking taxi line. I already had a hard time breathing in the humidity and the smoke simply suffocated me. I coughed dramatically in protest. He turned around, looking at me appraisingly from the curve of my shoulders down to my santa red toes, and puffed his huff at my face, letting the lazy entrails of smoke entangle my hair and smother me with a cruel deliberateness.

I directed my intense glare at his unkempt, thinning strands of hair that hung on desperately to fading manhood. I mentally cursed all semi-bald men, who either rubbed balloons on your once-silky smooth long hair to demonstrate static electricity or shamelessly cut through the line just to end up in front of you, smoking up a factory and parading the fact that you were a pushover on two counts.

So channeling maximum dramatic charm, I raised my hand, palm outward, to my forehead, and pretended to faint.

When the people nearby gave him the looks, he disgustedly threw his cig down and grounded it with his black heel, all the while muttering about the trouble that women bring.

Third Time Lucky

J and I are complete opposites so we are constantly venturing out of our own reassuring comfort zones to meet the other more than half way.

I pulled him to the local Fruit Music Plaza for a mind-blowing night of KTV and dancing while he slowly warmed up his side to side shuffles with Katy Perry favorites. He, the high school swim team star, invited me, who frequented the handicap lap lane, to early morning swimming. I often joked about 5 languages of love as a gentle (or pouty) reminder that I needed my words of affirmation for the day, when he would rather take out my trash to show affection.  And when I casually interlinked my fingers with his in the Shanghai metro, he shifted uncomfortably and saved his "I don't believe in PDA" speech for the privacy of a dark cab.

While we grabbed Uighur food with our work friends the other day, in the middle of my 5 love languages conversation with a colleauge who was conteplating divorce, J cleared his throat. A little too loudly.

He held both hands out, palms down, and with a conspiratory smirk, he announced that he had a secret. In a smooth move, he put his hand on the back of my neck, and pulled me in for a kiss.

He missed.

The table went wild. Amid cries of "I knew it!" and "So you're not gay!?" J tried again.

And missed again.

Even my thick skin was not hiding the red that crept up my cheeks. So the third time, I tried to ignore the flashing cameras and the rolling videos that would probably be uploaded to the company QQ group, and held still.

J, the boy known for not dating in the Flagship program, hated hand holding in public, and avoided me when he first moved here because I was a girl, beat me at the PDA game.

Check mate.

Confession: I've never read the 5 Languages of Love

Gnarled

I remembered her because she refused my chocolate bar.

Jonathan and I were in the taxi line at the Suzhou train station, slowly shuffling along, while fanning off cigarette smoke that was being blown in our direction. She weaved through the crowd, slow enough to make sure that people saw her deformed hand and collected the occasional coin, but quick enough to dodge the verbal abuse or move past the indifference.

She stopped in front of me and asked me for a little something to help her. Once again, she raised her hand - gnarled, like chicken feet that has been cooked in curry stew for way too long - callously, as if it's a mere chip to leverage human emotions. I gave her some money. Then as she was about to turn away to move to the man in front of me, I asked her to wait. I fished out a bar of rich, creamy milk chocolate bar that I had been saving from Hong Kong, and offered it to her.

Her eyes darted around the crowd, seeming to look around for approval. She glanced back at me, with a shocking familiarity, and refused. She had a cold and couldn't eat chocolate; I should give it to the young man next to me instead.

Later, while sweeping my floor at home, I snapped my head back from the realization that I had seen that look before on a different girl. The same hard eyes. A whispered confession at the homeless shelter for children in front of the barred windows. A plan to track down the restaurant owner who made her pick up broken glass with her bare hands and make him swallow those cutting shards one by one.

---------

Last week, after a sales pitch in Shanghai, I returned to the Suzhou train station, competing with the old ladies for an early spot in the taxi lines.

I noticed the bowl first, the few coins, and finally the written petition describing the accident that left her with the horrific mutilation on her hands.

Then I see her eyes. And her gnarled hand. But this time, instead of the smooth skin of a child, there were angry, vengeful burns.

All of a sudden, I tasted the bitterness of chocolate in my mouth and gagged.

Three Ayis

One. 


I met her on my first day at work while she was cleaning the bathroom. She was flushing the toilets with a violence normally reserved for confronting minute maids. I asked her if she was ok. She looked at me, then glanced left and right, all the while pursing her lips. With a conspirator's whisper, she told me that we should retreat to the stairways, where it would be safe to talk because there were no security cameras.

There I listened, fidgeting with my work badge, while she railed against management and her hourly rates. I asked her where the recycling bin was. She refused to tell me, instead offering to give me a 40% cut from her scrap paper + bottles sales if I would be her supplier.

Since then, I've often had to excuse myself and walk through five or six ayis unionizing in the stairway. She was always the one sitting on the highest stair, a queen bee who reigned their 15 minute breaks.

Two.


It's Wednesday, but the lady who usually tidied my papers and wiped down my office desk wasn't there. When she got back the next week, she seemed less excited about piecing the mustard yellow vacuum cleaner together. When she came around to my desk with the wet, purple rag, I told her I was sorry about her sister. She looked away, then shook her head slightly, pretended to be concerned about the ink spill on my desk. After soaking and wringing her rag a few times too many, she finally asked me what she should do with her 14 year old niece. She didn't have the resources to take her in and provide for her own son.

Three.


I stopped her in the hall and asked her about the ayi she replaced. Her eyes narrowed, calculating whether I was the one who told on the ayi and her unions. After deciding that a whistleblower wouldn't ask her to say hi to the other, she grabbed my hand and squeezed it.

She liked to keep me in on the loop regarding bathroom gossip. I now know which girl on the floor often didn't flush and which company, on the whole, was the dirtiest.

One day, as I was walking out of the bathroom, she called me over to the dark closet room with a loud whisper. She handed me her phone and asked me to help her get past her current level on her game. The rules were simple. Happy snails pushing crates onto apples get points in a garden maze. I fumbled pathetically. We didn't play games growing up.

I felt genuinely bad when she had to start all over because of my three failed attempts. She was on level 10. As I walked away, back to the office, I heard her mutter while picking up her mop, "Ayah. Made me start all over again. And I thought she was smart."

How to catch a killer

A month or so ago, a boss and his assistant went to the bank to withdraw 200, 000 RMB (roughly 32, 000 USD) for year end bonuses. A man walked up to them and shot the assistant point blank. He stuffed all the cash into his black duffel bag and took off.

The bank robber took public transport for his getaway. That's frugality at its extreme. And it's amazing that the policemen still weren't able to apprehend him on the bus.

And now this killer is thought to be running loose in my city. At least, that's what all the WANTED posters tell me.

While I haven't seen too many wanted posters, except in old cowboy movies, I cannot help but judge whoever made the ones that are posted on every lamp post.

This is how the posters describe the man:

Male / Medium height / Has a slight tan / Facial features are evenly spaced / Speaks Mandarin with an accent / Looks mean / Wears hats and gloves / Doesn't socialize much / Walks with his toes pointed outwards

Um. I just want to point out that everybody in China has some sort of an accent, unless you're a broadcaster or a (very good) foreigner learning Chinese. As for facial features, I guess they're saying that he's not ugly. You can judge for yourself.

Even though these photos are all over town, camouflage will be easy: Just don't wear a hat, walk properly, talk once in a while, and smile.

I think he kind of looks like Bruce Lee from the side. Don't you?

A Breakfast Proposition

She accused him of loving himself, his novels, his casual female friends more than her. He slapped her because she was going to elope with another man. She broke down when he walked out and begged him to stay --

I rubbed my eyes and put To Have and Have Not face down. Staying a night in a sketchy motel across from the train station was probably not one of my best ideas. I think I woke up every fifteen minutes because of the rumbling in the pipes. And now I was hurrying back to Suzhou right before work. Hemingway was giving me the worst headaches.

"You don't like Hemingway?"

I looked at the guy sitting next to me. Standard height, baseball hat, probably a two-day scruff. An American. East coast?

"He's ok. It's just too early in the morning for infidelity."

"Well, how do your afternoons look like?"

I glanced quickly, using my BYU ring check skills. Yep. Married.

". . . I work."

Gosh. Men.

A Sexy Interview

The boys at the office noticed her tight dress.

I noticed her tooth. A singular jagged canine that hangs out when her lips are pursed.

I never thought I would say this, but we were actually interviewing a sexy Nanny McPhee.

She was a salesperson who wants to be our COO assistant. But it's a pity because she's obviously very good at her sales job.

She bragged about her tactics. Since most of her work involved cold calling clients, she would often "accidentally" mention her QQ number (China's MSN equivalent) so that the clients could chat with her online. Where, of course, they would see her picture. And then talk some more.

At around 4:30 or 5:00 p.m., she would switch her computer's time clock to 10:30 p.m. and then email her clients. And casually drop in a post script about how she's so lonely at the office because she's slaving away on client X's project. But she didn't mind because she would be going back to an empty apartment anyways.

At the end of the interview (I was translating), she looked at me and asked me to flatter my boss for her.

I was shocked. She even outsourced her sucking up.

And yet, I liked her. Those sales people are dangerous.

Driven

I never thought this day would come. I actually want to get my driver's license.

Perhaps it's because I have absolutely no need for it right now. Or that my parents think it's impossibly dangerous since most people often casually drive on the wrong side on the road and try to edge you out on the highway.

Either way, I finally got over my fear of driving and asked around about driving courses in Suzhou.

Instead, I was given tips on finding the right guys to take the test for me. And their prices.

Apparently, a friend spent RMB 5500 (roughly $780) in Shanghai and still didn't get her license. Another bargained hard and only spent RMB 1800 in Suzhou. The third just laughed and boasted that he went on a trip to Xinjiang (Western province in China) and got his license while driving around blindly in the desert.

Maybe I'll stick to my driving practice at the arcade.*

* To be honest, I did try driving once, two years ago. I got pulled over.

First Day

I started work yesterday.

I had to keep a straight face when some of my coworkers told me their names. Craven. Elvis. Cinderella. Candy. King. I'm still waiting to see if they live up to their names.

I translated for my boss while he interviewed a prospective employee. I guess when the guy wrote on his resume that he was fluent in English, he had a relatively loose interpretation of the word "fluent." Or "English." But he did have a spiffy one-liner when he told us his English name, "James. Clear and strong." Kind of reminded me of my cough medicine.

I should really tell you about how much I loved my first day. Five minutes after I tentatively walked into the office, I just knew that I had made the right choice. The enthusiasm and energy was absolutely contagious. I was so excited that I even worked overtime on my first day.

But right now, I'm sitting in a Starbucks siphoning internet access, while sipping overpriced cold chocolate, and I'm in more of a sarcastic mood. So I'll save the passionate/ idealistic post for later. Because a company as great as this, with the potential to improve so many Chinese workers' lives, deserves a better blogging effort. And I deserve a better drink.