Walk this way...

I spent most of Saturday at Wukesong Stadium, watching a Basketball Test Event. Nobody likes working weekends, but if you gotta, then this was ok. As the day wound down, and I began daydreaming of a long overdue Sunday morning sleep in, I was asked if I could pop in to the Marathon event on Sunday morning, not to take part you understand, but just for ten or fifteen minutes to watch the start. Um, sure, why not.

And so my Sunday morning began. My planned itinerary seemed straight forward enough: Rise at 6am, leave by 6.20 and arrive at the race start, Tiananmen Square by 7am and watch the 30 minute lead-in to the gun. But TIC (this is China)...

I arrived on cue, but due to strict security I'm dumped by my cab driver a good kilometre from where I need to be. I set off for the race start, but at every turn I am turned around and forced to re-turn. One young policeman would let me up some stairs only for a fellow teeny-bop cop to turn me away. Although they were helpful in pointing out where I needed to go (the big square over there) they were less forthcoming with an actual strategy of “how” to actually get there.

"This way?" I enquired. Lots of nodding and more pointing led me to believe that I was on course; walk outside this barricade 250 metres until you get to the end and then cross the road. I do this. Get to the other end only to be told (or ushered) in the direction from whence I’d come. “That way? I said. “I've just come from there.” Oh, alright then, back we go. Walk 200 metres that way, turn and walk 200 metres back. As the minutes ticked by I was suddenly jolted by a panicky and perturbed looking German photographer. “Mein Got! Vair ist unt schtartink line?” His sweaty, red and forlorn face spelled disaster; his desperation contagious. Soon the walking had turned to running. Both of us now in our own mini marathon, the Main Event only minutes from a start. Hans would have much explaining to do back at Das Spiegel if he didn't file his pictures on time!

But the maze of barricades and barrage of baby-faced policemen thwarted our every move. “Over here Hans!”. Damn, no entry.
“Ya, ya!! Ziss vay, ziss vay!”

We ran and ran like a couple of oversized Haile Gebrsellasies, darting across roads and hurdling barricades. Somewhere off I heard the theme to ‘Chariots of Fire’. We commandeered a passing golf cart that whisked us to the start line just in time to hear the starter's pistol. Hans ran to the line of spectators like a frothing, rabid Doberman, stucked his lens under someone’s armpit and snapped his little heart out. I wandered over to the VIP buffet, sat down for a cold coffee and a dry croissant.
This is the Olympics, and it’s not the winning but ‘taking part’ that counts. There was nothing left to do but say Auf Wiedersehen to Hans and head home. As I wandered slowly off under the watchful eye of Mao, across the vast expanse of Tiananmen Square, a few sprinkles of rain cooled my overheated head. Momentarily turning my face towards the sky, I took a deep breath, pulled out my camera and snapped a couple of pictures of my own. But this was not a passing shower, and without warning a savage squalling rain storm hit. I was running like a lone Tibetan freedom fighter caught by surprise in a nightmarish hell. I made my way to the road, and began waving like a saturated psychopath, star-jumping between the sheets of rain, playing chicken with every vehicle that remotely resembled a cab.

“No!” said a policeman (what is it with these guys)

“No what?” my face implied.

“No Taxi here!” I saw in his eyes.

“You’re telling me, mate!”

He was telling me to move on and that I was not allowed to hail a cab at this particular area of the Square, no matter how bad the rain was. He pointed the way and after walking 150 metres in the rain I was met by an equally cherubic policeman who politely told me...“No!”

I thought to myself ‘if he points back the way I've just come I'm gonna spank him and get myself arrested’. Fortunately for both of us he urged me further along the Square, so I kept going. I was a walking dish mop. With foggy glasses I trudged on. Rain running down my collar, down my back and legs. My jeans and shoes now soaked. Not a vacant taxi in sight and no legal place to hail one. Every time I half-heartedly put my arm out to flag an already engaged cab, the Square’s ubiquitous policemen appeared like mini-Mao Tse-tungs to tell me “No!”. At least the steady stream of water running down the bridge of my nose and into my mouth kept my thirst at bey.

And so I headed away from Tiananmen Square and Chairman Mao and the cab-nazis. I had a plan; a plan to take the back streets and avoid the growing crowd of sodden, sloshy cab-hailers...and my plan paid off. I spotted a vacant taxi. I not so much hailed it as pounced on it, Steve Irwin-style, stretched across the bonnet and holding on for dear life, knowing if I let go it was surely death! Within barely an hour and fifteen minutes from the first specks of rain I was warm and drying off in the back of “my” taxi. My marathon was over and I headed home.

Love me, love my feet

It’s where foot fetishists go to die. It is a sunken oasis beneath the grey and miasmic vastness that inundates all senses. An exquisite and priceless 90 minute experience for a paltry 25 dollars, introducing you to erogenous zones you never knew you had. Welcome to Oriental Taipan and their Beijing-famous foot massage.

The menu seems slightly misleading when, after donning de rigeur baggy, drawstring pants, the small, warm and remarkably strong hands of the masseuse begin to work your neck and shoulders while your feet soak in a hot ginseng pail. Soon after, and with all the strength of a floppy rag doll you ease into an oversized chair, fully reclined and relaxed.

What follows is a sensual lovemaking experience one has to experience to believe. With all the care of a brooding mother, the masseuse eases every aching minute of the long, endless day from your feet. One foot and then the other; never discriminating between the two, like a nurse caring for twins. Her thumbs and fingers knead deep into one foot and then the other. A lotion is applied and each silky foot is massaged with more attention than one would believe possible. Each toe is treated like a king among his minions. But again, each digit is his own master, and like the same loving mum caring for quintuplets, each receives equal love and thoughtfulness.

It goes on and on. Like a daydream that puts you in the most joyous place on earth before Morpheus sweeps you away and clouds fill your eyes and the dimly lit room fades to black. A little pleasant pain brings you back to the living, but as this beautiful maiden, in her clean white traditional Chinese uniform kneels before you, she compassionately cares for your feet as if each were a brave, wounded soldier.

The minutes keep ticking by, almost to the point of embarrassment. “Please, that’s enough. You’ve done more than is necessary”. But if a ‘foot massage’ starts with your neck and shoulders it seems perfectly acceptable that it would finish with a relieving and concentrated effort towards ones thighs. And if you’re back to almost lucid by this point, it may be necessary to chant over and over ‘Margaret Thatcher, Margaret Thatcher…’ as she works her way over every muscle and sinew to the very top of your legs, dangerously close to breaking the spell.

A playful slapping of sorts, down both legs to your baby feet, brings you back to earth and reminds you that what you’ve paid for is gratification of the lower limbs only, and anything else would seem truly tasteless. The ninety minutes have ticked by like days and are complete. So too is this utterly hedonistic and serene experience. Each aching minute of your endless, painful day, swept away and forgotten.

"I finish, thank you".

"Ber bung, ber bung, xie xie"

Satisfaction never in doubt.

Shocking Beijing

Mosquitoes in 7 degrees Celsius? I know. Actually I don't. How is it I can get eaten alive in a clime more suitable to huskies than blood suckers? I know what you're thinking, and no, they're not bed bugs (though this hotel is sure to have some) 'cause I actually squashed one of the little suckers the other night. Wait...I think I hear another one now...

Beijing. City of Shocks. Electric shocks! The atmosphere is so dry that in addition to my chapped, cracked and peeling lips, everything you touch sparks a static electric shock. Sure, the laptop button and the aluminium window sill, but what about the remote control, my toothbrush and the cushion on the sofa. Ouch! This is ridiculous. I am brimming with electrical charge. On a 'positive' note, simple chores like washing clothes become a breeze in this weather. You simply hang your wet washing on the line and by the time you reach the end, you can go back to the start and begin unpegging. Voila!

As we prepare to move to new digs, I realize how much I will miss my time here at the fabulous (did you get that sarcasm) Century Towers. I will especially miss the cleaners; like they've missed me for the past 3 weeks. It is baffling. I hang a sign on my door that says “Please Clean My Room”, but I'm sure the local cleaners look at these strange English words, shrug, and move on. In short, if you want your room cleaned one must go down to reception where precisely NOBODY speaks English (who can blame them) and act out a weird game of charades. Imagine your phrase is “filthy pig sty”; Ok, 3 words, first word, two syllables... oh forget it, I'll just leave all my rubbish outside my door like everyone else. It makes me feel like a local, although I'm still refusing to spit in the lobby and smoke in the elevator.

The fact that I'm blogging about static, mozzies and room service may lead you to believe that I've not had a chance to see much of Beijing. The truth is... I've not had a chance to see much of Beijing. Testament to this is my new collection of 27 DVDs I bought on the street (77c each). I've watched one. Don't get me wrong, I'm loving my time here but if you cut out the time I've spent in the office, in taxis getting to and from the office and time spent working from the filthy pig sty, I've had enough time to watch one whole DVD. It was good.

Ok, did I mention the bad TV? The satellite provides three semi-watchable channels; Star World, HBO and CNN and 89 channels of Asian pop stars, soaps and propaganda. It makes me realize, no matter where you are in the world this medium is extremely overrated. Of some concern is a worsening, troubling condition, known as “Obamaclintonitis”. I have all the tell-tale signs. I'm now certain CNN is an acronym for Chronic News Neurosis and the prognosis is not good.

But it's not all work and no play. Well, actually, it kinda is. The more important tasks include overseeing training, organizing meetings with people whose English is only moderately better than my Mandarin, being present at test events and putting out more fires than the South Australian fire department during a hot spell. B-Teamer, Olly recently presided over a Shooting Test Event which from all accounts drove him to breaking point. Chinglish scripts, poorly organized rehearsals and the non-stop circus type environment seemed more that one person should physically bear. But on a positive note, it was the Shooting event, and if pushed to the point of no return, at least he didn’t have far to look for a gun. He survived the ordeal and has now moved on to Synchronised Swimming. I smell trouble.

This blog was almost named Beijing Taxi, as my time in Beijing has been dominated by the endless hours of cab-sitting. Not riding, driving or motoring...just sitting. Yesterday, we established a new cab-to-work record with an impressive 2 hours 20 minutes for the 20 km trip. So much of what I've seen of this amazing city has been from the rear window of any one of the 60,000 eighties-style Hyundai cabs.

I'm static, and also ecstatic as this week we signed the lease on our new apartment. An amazing place, conveying the true nature and history of this amazing city; ‘Upper East Side’ is where all ugly westerners should make a bee line for when planning on more than a jaunt in Beijing-town. Ok, so I bypassed the hutongs in the old part of town, but a guy needs a little luxury, and I hear the mosquitoes and static electricity are almost non-existent there, so it's a win-win.

First Week

The first week in Beijing has been interesting if not a little unsettling. Anytime you find yourself plonked in a unusual part of the world, you need to allow for some significant alterations to your day to day reality. Simple, basic things like a new bed. The king-sized bed in my room at the Century Towers in the Chaoyang District of Beijing is great, if not a little hard. This would explain my grazed knees and elbows after a fitful first night of tossing and turning. This was not helped by an air-conditioning unit that has two settings; 42 degrees and off. I opted for 'off' and felt almost Scandinavian with a healthy norwester blowing through the open balcony window.

But I awoke to clear blue skies, something I'd been led to believe did not exist in Beijing. In fact, the first 48 hours could be classified as 'beautiful'. Little did I know that my first day and a half in Beijing would be the only 'free' time I would get in the next 9 days. And within 48 hours of my arrival the rains came and the temperature dropped dramatically. I know it was cold as I usually guage how chilly it is by the number of times I say 'fuck' between my morning shower and getting dressed. So while the sun was out and before I started each day with a few dozen expletives, together with fellow "B-Team" members, Olly and Kristen, I set off to explore my strange new world.

After a wander around the lakes in the Shichahai district (above), and the mandatory stop-off in a bar to watch a Socceroos match (against China) we weaved our way through Jingshan Park (great views of this mega-metropolis) to Tiannamen Square. Each day, at sunrise and sunset, a flag ceremony is performed by Chinese soldiers in a ritual that seems to attract the attention of Beijing locals more than the tourists. After milling around among the increasing number of eager-beaver locals, a regiment of soldiers left the main building and stomped their way with immaculate precision to the flag pole, only momentarily disrupted by a sole Tibetan, waving a small flag in protest. He was quickly set upon by six soldiers. In true foreign correspondent style I whipped out my camera, but then thought better of it, considering my life a tad more important than a possible Press Photo of the Year award. Poor chap, probably dead now.

By the next afternoon we found ourselves at BOCOG headquarters, where we were to remain in solitary confinement for the next week, getting our collective heads around our plan to succesfully stage an Olympic Games. 132 days and counting.

I'll spare you the work detail, suffice to say we managed to find wee windows of opportunity to eat and sleep. Our second evening was spent dining in a traditional Spanish Tapas restaurant, called Mare. Our hosts were Kristen's cousin and ex-pat Beijinger, Tom and his lovely fiance, Ivy. Tom, who has been part of Beijing in one way or another for the past decade, has proven invaluable with his knowledge of the city and his incredibly fluent and 'shooshy' Mandarin.

Other notable vignettes of Beijing in this somewhat turbulent first week:

• Couples dancing on a dimly lit footpath near Worker's Stadium, a group of fifty or so over 50's foxtrotting and waltzing their hearts out to a dodgy mini PA in the dark
• The largest pizza I've ever seen (it was a 'medium') at the Kro's Nest, to farewell a mate, Big Al, as he sets of to do 2,364 countries in a few weeks as part of the Olympic Torch Relay
• Breakfast at Shin Kong Place department store (complete with a reasonably good coffee) Searching for an apartment with a six-person strong entourage (very rock n' roll)
• Being disgusted at how Starbuck's and KFC are housed amid the traditional Beijing architecture, and;
• Counting the hours spent peering out of the rear window of a dozen taxi cabs (18.5 hours)

One of the most notable aspects of life here is the incredible amount of traffic. Not surprising when you tally up a population close to 18 million. The cars seem to be in a constant state of suspended animation. Crawling and beeping. Beeping and crawling. A Formula 1 race at 15kph. A journey that would take 20 minutes in most cities is chewing up a good hour and a half in Beijing. The monotony broken by laptop DVDs in the back seat.

Yesterday I woke to unbelievable smog. The cab to work seemed to be driving through one enormous storm cloud, the buildings of Beijing passed by eerily popping out of the gloom like gigantic, silent monsters. The acrid smog, burning the back of my throat, was utterly abysmal; the worst I have ever seen. Today it was worse.

With the endless chinglish, amusing to say the least, and unnervingly high doses of static electricty (you get a shock touching just about anything) Beijing is slowly starting to feel normal.

But it's the little things you miss, like toilet paper that tears along the perforation! Grrrr...

Mandarin

One of the first things you notice arriving in a strange, new city is the little things. Odd looking signs, different cars, different people, their clothes and the language that sounds so...foreign. Attempting to get by on the pocketbook Mandarin I'm travelling with is not really going to cut it. As bad as I am with languages I'm determined to expand my vocabulary beyond hello, goodbye, thank you and please. Maybe I've bitten off more than I can chew.

Mandarin sounds completely alien. For me, the most distinguishing feature of Mandarin is the "shooshy" sound to everything. So before you even attempt to speak, it's a good idea to work up a healthy mouthful of saliva. "Sho you should shtart shounding like a shlightly intoxshicated shailor". To compliment the sound (noise) that's emitted one also needs to conjure some deep, animalistic qualities, not unlike a low, growling feline. Finally, add a rollercoaster range of octaves adding tones that suggest shock, contemplation, excitement and doubt and...that's it!

Put it all together, and if you appear to be speaking like a drunken, bemused, schizophrenic tomcat...you're doing it right!

May-gwan-she!