Tuesday, June 10, 2008

Fresh Fish

When do you stop being a fresh fish and start being an old time Beijinger? Many would argue about the length of time one must live in Beijing before you can realistically call yourself a bonafide local. But goddammit! I'm going out on a very thin limb and proclaiming my new status.

11 weeks. I think this could be considered an industry standard and I'm proud to say I've just clocked up this impressive milestone today. Ok, so I may get some grief from Bjorn, the Swedish real estate guy whose been here 3 years, or other various ex-pats who have registered a staggering 5, 6 or 7 years. Perhaps even Queensland boy Tom, who has been back and forth to Beijing since 1997 will quietly chuckle at my impudence. His tenure, together with his incredibly impressive and fluent Mandarin, make him a demi-god even to the true, fully confirmed ex-pats.

Me, I'm an eleven-weeker, a pup, a green horn, but you know... I feel like I finally belong. It's quite possible I may look back at the end of my stint here and laugh heartily at my foolish self for being such a precocious upstart. But it's the 77 day mark and by gosh it feels like I've been here a very long time.

And still, there may be some contention when it comes to the specific qualifications needed to become a certified, card-carrying Beijing ex-pat, but I believe when I no longer need to hand my cab driver a slip of paper to get me home safely and nonchalantly rattle off “Yang guang shong dong”, well, in my book that's a pretty good start.

As I sit in my cab, I can control the driver like a puppeteer; “zo-gwai”, “yo-gwai”, “wan-tien” I command. And like a voice-activated remote controlled car we zig and zag, horn-blowing all the way to my destination. “Ting, Ting!” I instruct as we come to a halt. “Boo-yoong-jow la” I say as I float a 50 quai note in his direction. Big grin, “xie-xie” and I'm home.

But am I home? Is it not more than directing a taxi and being conversant in these simplistic and mundane daily rituals? Sure, I can order a double shot coffee to go, request an ashtray, a menu or the bill, but my major struggle is in hearing anything coherent in reply. I remember many years ago, when I walked into a tobacconist in Rome. After fifteen minutes of reciting “a packet of Marlboro, a packet of Marlboro, a packet of Marlboro”. I run into the shop, make my purchase and skip out, as local as you please; simple, no? No. I was stymied at the first hurdle when stupidly asked if I needed matches. Damn! What? I dunno? What are you saying to me? Why, why, why did you have to spoil my little ‘momento al sol’?

And there's the rub. As a deluded man I'll stand by my claim (especially in the company of new arrivals) and remain obstinately defiant to the end! Sure I can get my coffee just right, I can direct my cabbie left and right, straight ahead and in extreme circumstances muster up a u-turn command, but when he turns around and asks which of three alternative routes I'd prefer, I go from seasoned Beijinger right back to Mister Greenhorn McFresh-Fish.

No comments: