‘The time to get up is 7am’
‘The time to get up is 7am’
My eyes are still shut as I listen to this proposition. As its source repeats it over and over again, I mull it over in my head. Seems to be reasonable enough. Of course it depends on what time it is now?
I blindly grab my Nokia mobile – an ancient brick of a phone, armed with the old monotone screen that entertains me with reruns of Snake. Technology isn’t cheap in China. Even this communication dinosaur set me back nigh on 200 RMB from a side street vendor.
As my eyelids reluctantly part from themselves, I realize that it is the phone itself that is suggesting the time to greet the day.
And its proposition suddenly becomes far less attractive when it occurs to me that it is actually 7am now.
‘The time to get up is 7am.’
‘The time to get up is 7am’
Oh for goodness sake. The Air Con buzzes away doing its job, having blown its storm all night long to keep away the sweats that the Shanghai balmy nights bring. As I lie in the damp recesses of my bed, I come to terms with the fact that it doesn’t do it very well.
There’s only one thing for it. One thing to truly prepare me for a day of tackling children whose endless supply of energy challenges my own limited reserves. Whose parent’s watchful eyes are waiting for their child to blossom into English scholars. With a day of Flash cards, last minute prep, games, songs and dancing, I look to the one thing that any self respecting man would seek refuge in, in my position.
The Snooze Button
Across Shanghai, mobile phone alarms, the cries of waking babies, the horns of impatient traffic, the drill of endless construction, the urgent shouts of late commuters, the whistles of Traffic assistants, and the steam rising from the Baozi stand…
…wakes the city up to another day of Communism. And this is no moot point. Because in 2011, China celebrates 90 years of the Communist Party.
Already banners, posters, video dedications litter the available marketing space to unite this nation together under glorious Red. The hammer and the sickle – so ingrained in my mind as a symbol of the old USSR – beams a happy smile across the city.
And though the powers that be have done a very good job at muting dissent...
This gallery had just been visited by officials and asked to
remove this picture attacking the government.
...you can’t deny that it’s worked for China. Just look around you. From Skyscraper to skyscraper, from Bentley to Aston Martin, from decadence to decadence, could democracy and freedom of choice have ever achieved this? (Well I’m not answering that)
But herein lies the problem.
The Communist ideal (in Shanghai) has already been compromised.
As China has flourished, the government has made concessions, giving more and more rights of ownership to its people, so they can reap more Capitalist reward. So while the argument is that they’ve been oppressed, forced to tow party line, their reins have been loosened bit by bit.
But in a city exploding with money, but where owning your own property is tantamount to just 'leasing it off the government for 70 years' can Communism survive?
Maybe – China is nothing but resourceful. After all getting 1.3 billion people to step in is beyond most other country’s budget deficits. In fact it’s pretty astonishing.
Either way, China will be an exciting place to be for years to come, especially while the Western world disintegrates. Dramatic growth, increasing social awareness and the thrill of opportunity – this country is definitely waking up to something big.
And as I stumble from my shower, cloaking myself in the permanent whiff that my Travel towel seems to have adopted (no matter how many times I’ve washed it), it’s a great place to be right now.
That is until I reach the kitchen.
And open my fridge.
It started with the milk.
Just a flippant comment from my housemate Susan. As it came from a woman who specializes in spouting utter bollocks, it was one ear out t’other. It was only when my colleagues at work mentioned it that I started to listen.
In 2008, it was claimed that Chinese milk made around 300,000 people severely ill, killing a handful including children. The poison was Melamine – a chemical compound used to make concrete, glue and plastic.
Now such a story would have shattered the British farming industry. But even now, Melamine is flagged up in many brands of milk. Though I buy the more expensive ones on the market, I’m still playing Russian Roulette over a bowl of Cheerios.
After the milk, came the exploding Watermelons.
As it sounds, China was riddled with Watermelons that due to a ‘growth accelerator’ would literally go boom. Duck the flying pips.
Back home, we are so conscious of on organic and free range farming methods, avoiding any chemical or fertilizer that may harm the produce or the environment around it. China on the other hand don‘t just seem slow to catch on. It sometimes appears they just don’t give a forchlorfenuron.
If it was hard for Jesus to feed five thousand, he should try 1.3 billion.
Shop around and you can find heavy metal cadmium in the rice, arsenic in soy sauce, bleach in mushrooms, and – saving the best till last – the detergent borax in pork, added to make it resemble beef.
Fake beef? It’s like Caspian’s Pizzas on the Smallbrook Queensway all over again.
As an expat living in Shanghai, you can always avoid it by shopping at one of the growing Import supermarkets that champion their organic source of their fruit and veg – like City Shop or Fresh Mart. But expect to pay a hefty premium.
Still, lets not dwell on things.
After all, it’s 8am – far too early in the morning. And I need to be in school in half hour, mom.
I rush down the 5 floors of my apartment block and- Sorry, who am I kidding. I wait impatiently as the lift descends from 33rd floor of my apartment block, adding minutes to my tardiness, and points to my laziness.
On the ground floor, I rush out, straight into a wall of heat. Or rain. Or both.
This is the Shanghai summer. And things haven’t even reached their peak yet. June has seen rain, plenty of it. For 2 weeks, it almost rained everyday. And sometimes the monsoon-esque downpour can blind you they’re so hard. I’ve known power showers that would cower in fear. Goodness knows hows the oblivious and reckless traffic doesn’t end in total bloodshed.
But its only at its peak occasionally. And rain brings cooler winds, more comfortable temperatures, and keeps the wolf from the door. The wolf being the heat.
Cos by Lucifer’s balls, it gets hot in this city.
Try raising your arm in 35 degree heat, let alone walking. Its smothers you like a humid, sticky blanket, pricking at your every pore as if you’ve been swimming in Vicks Vapo Rub.
It’s a heat that denies motivation, restricts movement, and confines you to the air conned indoors. As you walk down the road, you skirt close to the open doors of shops and hotel foyers just to reward yourself with that brief breeze of cool artificial air blasting from within.
I’ve got the oven baking of July and August to come. And I’ve been told in no uncertain terms that I ain’t seen nuffin yet.
I cross Xujiahui Lu, deciding not incur the wrath of the Traffic Assistants. Wrapped up in uniform, the weather must brutalise them. I dive into the depths of Dapuqiao Station, sitting on Line 9 of Shanghai Metro, and head straight to the turnstiles, completely ignoring the security check on my bag.
It’s a legacy from the Expo days, and a sign of the times we live in, when there is a X-ray machine for your bag before you enter the turnstiles. Manned by 2 security personnel who pretty much always look bored, when I first arrived in Shanghai, I was very diligent. Always thoughtfully exposing my man-bag (it’s not gay, honest) to their scrutiny.
Until I realized – to my amusement – that its not obligatory. It advises that you can put your bag through ‘at your own discretion’.
Fancy that. I’ll bear that in mind when I decide to carry explosives.
My train pulls in, and I jump on.
I’m lucky that my line isn’t one of the most popular. I’ve caught the metro on Line 2 at rush hour – the one that cuts right through the centre West to East – when I’ve stayed over ‘at a friends’ on a school night, and been faced with an unmoveable wall of people in front of me.
There is no way I’m getting onnnnOOOOOOFFF.
Sorry, that’s just me being pushed on by one of the platform guards. Assigned to squeeze on as many people into each carriage as can justifiably fit – and then a few more – they literally spread their arms, and charge forward towards the door, pushing whoever gets caught in their embrace, and ramming them into the sardine tin.
And as you’re there, face to face, or face to armpit, its not hard to guess what your neighbour’s had for breakfast. Or what brand of deodorant the sweaty man’s neglected to buy.
But even when my personal space is denied so emphatically, the Chinese still somehow manage enough elbow room to play on their iPhones, or iPads. Because while imported branded technology doesn’t come cheap, it’s an obsession. In a city full of people chasing status symbols, it’s particularly amplified – the clamour over the iPad 2 is extraordinary. And potentially dangerous.
The news reported that a teenage boy sold his own kidney for one. And if that wasn’t enough, a girl offered her virginity for an iPhone 4.
Disgraceful. (I’ve got her email address if anyone wants it)
I get off at Shangcheng Lu, leave via the escalators of exit 4 and back out into the heat.
It’s also the first time of many that day, that my eyes will rest upon the World Financial Centre – the Bottle Opener – as it stands barely 5 minutes from my school. The slightly ludicrous thing, is that the Chinese are building the world’s second biggest building in Shanghai. Called the Shanghai Tower, it’s being built right next to the WFC. Show offs.
I’ve taken a girl for a drink in the bar on the 91st floor of the WFC.
And it really is quite an overwhelming feeling, looking down on Skyscrapers nearby. It’s certainly a good venue to impress. Certainly earns more brownie points than the top floor of the Rotunda. It did cost me £20 for 2 drinks mind. Whatever happened to cheap dates?
But as for the new one, the Shanghai Tower is going to have 128 floors. Take a girl for a drink on the top of that, and it don’t matter what kind of facial disfigurement or nervous tick you’ve been cursed with. Even a chronic Tourette’s sufferer’s getting laid.
Fuckity fuck.
I’m now in Pudong, over the water of Huangpu River from Puxi.
As I walk through the streets, the clues of it being Shanghai’s financial centre are everywhere. You say hi to Bentley, Aston Martin, Ferrari, Lambo, Porsche etc etc.
It feels less packed in like Puxi. And unfortunately infinitely more boring.
But Pudong is where you earn your money wisely. Puxi is where you spend it unwisely.
I arrive at school, salute Phillip the security guard, and walk into its wondrously air conned embrace.
Of course Phillip isn’t his real name. But like many of countrymen, and the Chinese children I teach (Roy, Elyn, Peter, Edward to name a few), they give themselves – or are given – English names to help interaction with expats. I’ve even started christening my pre-nursery class kids with English names. It needs to be appropriate, not random, fits the character, and echoes their Chinese name . So I’ve now also got a Timmy, a Harry and a right Charley.
And my Chinese name?
丹尼尔
Right, now where’s that Tattoo artist.
The day at school goes by swimmingly enough. I know I’m repeating myself, but I do love my job. I’ve performed puppet shows, help co-ordinate a sports days, and played guitar at our leaving year’s graduation concert. Everyday is different (mainly due to the fact that I’ve no idea how the lesson will pan out when I get there) and the rewards consistently brilliant.
And you barely feel the day go by.
AND today’s Friday. Whoop whoop.
It hits 4pm. The kiddly winks await the arrival of Mommy and Daddy, or as is common, their Ai yí?? Your Ai yí is the general term for your housekeeper.
They are common amongst expat families, and are predominantly Filipino due to their better grasp of English to help with the children. However many locals also act as Ai yí ‘s to expats without families cleaning after them for next to no money.
Whether immigrant or native, its not as if Shanghai is going to be short of candidates. It’s so cheap, you do wonder how locals can live on the wage.
This isn’t the only time you see the divide in earnings between foreigner and Chinese. As a native English teacher who is literally only tasked to come up 2 half hour lesson a day, my wage dwarfs that of the Chinese teachers who (wo)manfully educate and discipline the kids the rest of the time.
People survive in this city on less that £200 a month. Its possible – the cost of living can be cheap if you want it to be – but it’s a life that offers very little joy other than work. 2 drinks on the 91st floor of the WFC could feed someone for a fortnight.
After the class is cleared, and me and my in situ Chinese teachers breathe a huge sigh of relief, its time to go. I bid farewell to my fellow expats: Sharon, Rowena, Roselle and Chantal, and with cheeky scamp Daniel P in tow, we head home.
Back to line 9, back to Dapuqiao, back to Puxi.
As daylight turns to dusk, and dusk turns to night, Shanghai mounts up for the weekend.
It may lack a little roughness (even the scruffy places seem to have nice toilets), but Shanghai kicks off royally of an evening. Venues cram for space on every street corner
Shelter, Yuyingtang, The Lighthouse, Mint, M2, Mao Livehouse are just a few places that have prised my hard earned cash from me for a hard (?) earned beer.
You barely leave the house before 10pm, and dawn has caught me out more times that I care to remember.
Shelter especially – underground and designed like a bomb shelter – allows you no indication of what time it is, lulling you into the belief that world outside still sleeps. It’s not a welcoming sight to emerge to the sun ready to unleash its ferocity onto you, when all you need is the air conditioned solace of your bed.
Whatever your music, whatever your poison, it’s been done
Going out and finding a decent venue is spectacularly easy. The hippest places to be seen are easily invaded by plebs like me because everywhere is so accessible. There’s no elitist mindset…
…or maybe there is. And me being a white male – albeit a scruffy white male – is all the dressing I need.
And though the drinks are expensive, you just employ the usual tactic of get drunk via the wares of the 7/11 on street corners before the extortion of the bars mugs your wallet.
Then there’s making your way home – again sublimely easy in a city that churns out a taxi every other car. The fares are so regulated that no matter the colour of the cab, you know exactly what you’re going to pay.
Easy peasy lemon squeezy. Life couldn’t get anymore convenient.
I’ll just sit back and relax, let the functional flow of Shanghai take me along.
This is the life…
…or is it?
Its so easy, so so SO easy… that I’m getting restless.
Very restless. Has Shanghai got a use by date. Mmmm? Nah.
More appropriately for me, this isn’t what I signed up for. Just yet.
This city appeared when I needed it most, and its furnished me with everything I wanted at the time. But for where I am now, for what I need now, perhaps its got nothing left to offer.
The rest of China holds such an allure for me. Correction, it absolutely fascinates me. And Japan still beckons from across its restless Sea.
But it was with a degree of reluctance that I confirmed that I was leaving. August will see me forage deep into the highlights of China, braving the scrum at the Great Wall, heading West to mountains, only to return for a brief respite and then onto the Land of the Rising Sun.
However, that’s still 4 weeks away.
And I’m nowhere near bored of Shanghai just yet. How can I ever be?
As I climb into bed, after an exhausting night of frivolity and frolic, I don’t care that I have no discernible plan for the next day. Cos by merely walking down the street, this city can surprise you.
Virtually every waking moment has challenged, thrilled, threatened and inspired me.
Now if I can only reach my phone to switch off my alar-zzzzzzzzzzZZZZZZZZ
….zzzz..zzz…
….zzzzz-
‘The time to get up is 7am’
‘The time to get up is 7am’
Selected Photos by Daniel 'Cheeky Scamp' Piotrowski (except Phone, Banner and WFC)
