Doin' Nuthin'

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Every morning at 8, an alarm bell rings in our apartment complex and this morning, it woke me up. I imagine it as a holdover from the Communist days and envision people streaming out of their apartments heading to the bus stop for another day in the factories and fields. Those days of collective action seem long gone and the people I know are already heading to work by now and the groaning buses have been replaced by people starting cars and endlessly shifting between forward and reverse, trying to get out of tiny parking places with little understanding how to best move their new-found status symbols.

This morning after my regular fix of internet access on the wireless network so graciously provided by the hotel next door (shh, don’t tell) I decided I’d better head out and take advantage of Sunday. I know better than to go grocery shopping and last night in the noodle shop, I saw something on TV about a happening at Wu Shan Square, just around the corner so I hopped on my 3-speed and rode over to have a look.

It was about noon and the place was packed. Food stalls lined the central walkway where people were selling stuff on a stick. Meat, corn, candied fruit, all sorts. I ordered Squid-on-a-Stick which the woman fried with onions and seasoned with cumin and before I could say anything, a good shake of msg. Steam rose as she yelled to others about “such a deal” or the equivalent. Her white blouse was stained brown from the sizzle but her cooking skills were good and she delivered a fine rasher of sea flesh.

A few booths over people were buying peanuts in the shell and for another 5 quai, I could own a half a shopping bag. I asked for 1 quai worth and the woman refused. I think she thought I was bargaining but her co-worker caught onto my gesturing “small,” took my money and asked “which one?” After a taste test, I chose the ones that were unseasoned by, I’m guessing here, msg and I left united with a fat handful of goobers. Up the steps in the playground, kids swarmed an inflatable moon-scape next to some electric carts covered by fake animal skins. Parents and infants sat astride two tigers and two pandas circling around on stiff steel legs. A digitized monotone of Beethoven’s “Fur Elise” made it all the more dour considering this may well be as close as these kids ever get to encountering these endangered species, much less good classical music.

In the open space to the left, older kids and adults were launching neon green and orange spheres which if properly wrapped, soon drifted down as parachutes. I remembered my love of parachutes when I was a kid and at $2 each, a guy was making another small fortune selling shiny plastic crap. I didn’t buy one but quite enjoyed the ones that didn’t open, especially the one that rebounded directly off a bystander’s head. No harm and we all got a good laugh.

Now that my peanuts were gone, I decided to get on with the day’s plan, namely to investigate the quality of the Marsala chai at Indian Kitchen and Omar’s Café. This is the same restaurant that Ian and I had eaten in the other week . We pronounced the place ‘crap’ after he was delivered a pale mango lassi, runny lentil soup and a fat bill. I entered the same restaurant through wide glass doors held open by a Chinese woman in a sari. The Indian manager, called me ‘Sir,’ walked me past the brass-accented bar, across a squeaky wooden floor and showed me to a rattan table next to a water-element gone dry.

Around me, upper class Chinese couples got quality time, doing nothin’ but resting heads on shoulders, sharing the paper and stealing an occasional kiss. Someone’s daughter played an imaginary flying game with the feather-carved watermelon skin before racking the balls on the pool table. The only fault I could find was the early 80’s pop music on the stereo, but after twenty minutes of Bee Gees “How Deep Is Your Love” etc, the cd started skipping and with record-setting brevity of just five minutes it had been replaced by some more appropriate Bollywood themes. Ahh, someone was listening and answered my desire for sitar and raga. That is what I wanted with my tea. And for two hours, I wasn’t disappointed again. The little cup of chai was served in a proper red and gold porcelain cup, steaming hot, something rare in this town. And for $3 served its purpose splendidly: Namely giving me a little mood-boosting caffeine and letting me sit alone in a restaurant , sun streaming in from outside, as I lost myself in a novel. You see, Christmas came again last night with the return of Sean, packing a boodle of books including Dai Sijie’s Balzac and the Little Chinese Seamstress. Never was a better activity invented as sitting at a cafe table with nothing to do but read a good book. Especially one about the hardships of the Cultural Revolution, tempered by my knowledge that this dark chapter in China’s history had been replaced by a much better story.

Not that all the relics of old are gone, mind you. Just yesterday, I found the antiques market and there remain plenty of items venerating the Grand Chairman Mao. I’ve been on a mission to find some authentic Mao clothing for a friend back home and while I’ve been stymied so far, the pursuit has led me to some good places. Mao is popular again, at least among those who missed growing up during his reign. I’m sure people feel ‘mamahuhu’ about the man. He did some good, he did some bad. Thus “horse, horse, donkey, donkey” translated as ‘so-so.’ The market has lots of his images and one struck me yesterday. Amid the spread blankets of relics like pottery shards, Buddha images and polished stone, I saw a clock. It’s made of dark wood, about the size of a good book, lain on its side. On each side of the clock face are images of the leader, spry and healthy. I’m guessing the clock is from the 50s. Its face bears a crowd of shiny, happy workers, all wearing olive drab, pumping fists, one of which wags back and forth with the time. A little silver fighter-bomber circles around them on the second hand as if to protect them from above. Best of all, it works and keeps time.

I didn’t go to the market wanting a clock. I don’t need another “thing” but I asked the woman ‘how much’ just for kicks. With confidence and a straight face, she told me the clock was $100. I laughed and walked away, but she wouldn’t let me go. Least I could do is make her an offer, this being the appropriate custom. I thought for a second and offered her 100 quai, an eighth of her asking price, something so low I figured she would be insulted and I could go away free. She countered with 700. I walked away. “Six hundred!” I turned around, the crowd was looking on. I shook my head. I really didn’t want this clock. She continued until in less than 30 seconds, she’d agreed to 100, about $12. “Shit,” I thought to myself as she stuck it in a bag, “I’ve been had.” Next time, I will offer 50. Now all that is left to do is give Mr. Mao a daily wind-up and admire the willing workers, greeting me as I eat breakfast.

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