No longer just passing through

Tuesday 6^th December

I find that chapters in our lives, however exciting or dull, often appear to pass us by in the blink of an eye and yet somewhat paradoxically, upon more objective scrutiny, merit the passage of time that has elapsed.  The past three months in the People’s Republic, undoubtedly the most exotic and adventurous chapter of my life thus far, have been no different in this respect although I am increasingly recognising the acute difference between ‘living’ in China and not merely ‘being’ here. 

I am conscious, especially as we now roll into December, of the extent to which my appreciation of time has been somewhat skewed by the rather elongated summer I have enjoyed – particularly when you consider the British summer was in full swing before spring had subsided.  I was told that Fuzhou, a notoriously two-season climate, turns spitefully from ‘pants on the balcony’ weather to something altogether less appetising – chiefly cold and damp – in a matter of days.  This matter of days is elapsing as I write and whilst as a well-bred Englishman I fear not what is a comparatively mild winter by European standards I am increasingly interested and concerned by the rising damp!  There is infamously no central heating in a majority of Chinese homes and so whereas in the UK I could, courtesy of my father’s partiality for a clockwise twist of thermostat, promenade about the house in beach attire in China jumpers and scarves are required. 

I am certainly experiencing a greater sense of being part of an altogether new community now a couple of months have passed and routines and habits have emerged from what was initially an overwhelming broth of stimulating new experiences. 

The elaborate daily display of my local outdoor butcher!  

I recognise my neighbours, for example, and we exchange pleasantries as we pass on the stairs or congregate around the rat infested communal rubbish dump.  I have developed a friendship with the night porter of my complex – a 15 year old boy who hasn’t been to school in over a year.  He is seemingly so proud to have a laowei (foreigner) in his midst and his enthusiasm to communicate plays right into my hands as I’m equally enthusiastic about practicing Chinese.  I named him Stefan after a character in a Henning Mankell book I was reading upon our initial acquaintance – maybe it was the black hair, his pale skin, maybe something else altogether.  He likes it and it fits in a way so many students names don’t!  Our relationship is, however, bittersweet, laced as it is by my recognition of the all too tragic circumstance of his life.  He left his countryside home near Wuyi Shan (several hours by bus from Fuzhou) at 14 to live in the city with his uncle.  He works from 6pm until 6am everyday and sleeps, on the job, on a board that rests on top of two wicker chairs in a doorway. 

Zi Han going about her stuff, Nov 2011

Bian Rou, with Ban Mian in the foreground

I also know the entire family who run the restaurant below my apartment building.  The laoban or boss, his wife, his younger sister, his younger brother and his wife and their adorable daughter – Zi Han.  It would appear that if she’s not at kindergarten she’s in the restaurant – mimicking the way customers eat and speak and feeding her uncle cigarettes like one would feed an animal.  I have tried to teach her some English but she seems to be able to say thus far is ‘how do you say?’.  This restaurant, barely the size of my flat, is chiefly responsible for my growing appreciation of the Chinese breakfast with local Fujian specialities扁肉 (Bian Rou – wonton soup featuring wonton skin and a pork filling) and 拌面(Ban Mian – noodles with a peanut butter like sauce) now regular parts of my weekly diet.  

Te solitary English breakfast I have enjoyed since my arrival – in my Hong Kong hotel room almost three months ago – is now very much a decent memory.  However, judging by my reaction to finding Heinz Baked Beans in Carrefour you can never quell an Englishman’s longing for his national dish!

A regular part of my routine that I am pleased to report is my weekly Saturday night humiliation on the badminton court.  After finding the Fujian’s to be less than enthusiastic to a game of cricket I decided that badminton was a more suitable proposition for some regular ‘social’ exercise.  I joined a small club that plays at different venues on different nights.

They are not accustomed to having a foreigner strutting his stuff, squeaking his non-marking Li Ning’s around the court – sweating on the sideline like a fat guy on a running machine wearing a grey T-shirt.  They are, consequentially, all too keen to dance around elegantly on the other side of the net and put you through your paces.  The majority of opponents, seldom loosing control of the shuttlecock, politely entertain a rally for a period before unleashing a smash or well disguised drop shot to remind you whose boss.  There are, however, a few rather more mean spirited opponents, including a ruthless young lady, who seem to take great pleasure in putting you in your place.  This may sound embarrassing and like a complete waste of time but is really is great fun and a decent work out.  I have unsurprisingly made a marked improvement in a short space of time and the people, off court at least, are really friendly. 

I was recently invited to enjoy dinner with two dozen or so of the regular players on a Saturday evening.  It was a most remarkable of venues – a very small dark room downstairs with a few bare-chested old men smoking cigarettes and playing mahjong underneath a low hanging table light.  We walked through and then up a narrow, dimly lit staircase that led to the restaurant.  This may sound a little unusual but it really is nothing out of the ordinary and often these ‘underground’ restaurants serve some of the best food.  The remarkable quality of this restaurant was the extraordinary choice of individuals it’s owner decided merited an appearance in his wall.  I was immediately intrigued when reaching the top of the stairs I was confronted with a huge poster of Osama Bin Laden – a familiar face maybe, but not as restaurant décor!  There were also large intimidating posters of Gaddafi and, next to my table, Saddam Hussain.  When questioned, the restaurant owner said he decorated his restaurant in this manner because they were his ‘idols’ – I decided against asking for a fuller explanation.  The Sichuanese boiled fish he served up wasn’t bad either! 

Lost in translation!  One of the more hysterical occasions on which I was misunderstood.  I swear I asked the 'rice man' for a bowl of rice and not a bag!  That should last me a year or two!