All Things Change

At present we’re in Beijing sitting out the arrival of number three child, due two days before the Olympics. So we’re somewhat privy to the finishing touches going into the master piece that will be the 29^th modern Olympiad.

The city is bright and sparkling, relatively, with freshly painted lines on newly bituminized roads, with new road signs and no beggars. There is heightened security and an over abundance of just completed modern architectural marvels. But what has caught my attention is the fain. That’s right fake rain. 

By bombarding the Beijing skies with silver iodide particles shot from mountainside cannons the local authorities are trying the control the weather. Which means fain. The fain falls and cleans the pollution from the air by washing it earth bound.  

I not sure of any other country that would actually choose to hold a major international event in the peak of their bad weather season. China has of course chosen this date because the eighth day of the eighth month of the eighth year of this century is ridiculously auspicious, and they can control the weather. Control the weather!? Well it has been faining fairly well the last few days.

In my own limited experience fain tends to fall very lightly for a prolonged period. It’s a very reluctant drop that is so small it shouldn’t be falling but I suspect the silver iodide adds the extra weight to cause its decent. The other day it fained from the morning until sundown then it turned into a half hour rain. Then precipitation ceased. 

The Olympics will be perfect. Almost like a studio production. In fact, I am convinced that if the organizers could get hold of a giant dome, ala “The Trueman Show”, they would plop it over the city, ala the “Simpsons Movie”. Control of the light, the season, the cast, the character development, and of course the plot is all important around these parts. 

Of course when you’re the host you make sure the drinks are cold, the table is set and that the kids are in bed, but this year’s Olympics is going to be a little bit Fhina than usual.

(I understand why “they’re” doing it, really I do, auspicious date and all. I’m just a little touchy about getting wet by fake water.)

Our decision to move set in motion the stages of transition. The “leaving” stage looked a little like this:
(1) Haggle with moving companies. (1.1) Say goodbye. (1.2) Make some apologies. (1.3) A few last meals with friends.
(2) Wrap house hold items in a 100 or so meters of bubble wrap. (2.1) Say goodbye. (2.2) A few more last meals with friends.
(3) Stuff 66 labeled boxes with household items. (3.1) Say goodbye. (3.2) Even more last meals with friends.
(4) Load. Then a few days later, unload our material possessions. (4.1) Say goodbye. (4.2) The last meal with friends. (4.3) Say Hello.
(5) Start new life. (5.1) Sigh…
(6) Apologize to the family for being grumpy and overly critical… 

Transition by nature is emotional, tiring and at its peak chaotic. But we made it through this one quite well. Sure there was the mid flight panic, “Oh crap! Where’s the camera cord?” and “Did you remember to turn off the gas?” and “Does anyone know we’re arriving today?”  But there were some less obvious but more impacting issues waiting to be addressed on arrival. 

HUMIDITY. Our little family hails from a few different places all of which are, climactically speaking, dry. Qingdao, our new city, is not. We now have a rather nice apartment in a rather nice apartment complex rather close to the oceans edge (just over 100 meters). But being at sea level a heavy fog often envelopes our world, bringing dampness. The summer brings heat (as it should) and also rain (which it shouldn’t) with its signature humidity. The sweating adds an irritant to the day a little like a mild headache. But what really gets us (me really) on edge is the smell of damp clothing that refuses to dry and the threat of mold cultures growing on the internal walls.  

Environmental differences are said to be the first, although less apparent, challenge people face when we begin the entering phase of the transition. But sometimes culture can create an environmental issue that can become challenging and stressful.  

SECURITY. As mentioned our new house really is quite nice and not only is it by the ocean it’s also immediately next door to the Olympic sailing venue. A mildly exciting fact which currently is proving to be frustrating due to an overly thorough security blockade. Our complex falls within the “security shadow” that surrounds the venue so access to and from our place of abode is becoming limited. The affinity that China has for walls, exclusion and isolationism is not lost on the local organizers, but sadly it is on the residents of our complex. Entering or leaving the “shadow” has become an exercise reliant on tactical moves. Firstly we heed the wise words of Gangis Khan. “The Long Wall (aka Great Wall) is only as strong as those who defend it”. So we try to choose the weakest looking centurion and pass on through or if stopped plead our case. This has so far proven a useful method but as the 29^th Olympiad draws neigh we’re expecting the centurion insist on us dismounting our taxi seats and walking the last kilometer.  

I think they’re only making me walk so I can experience the humidity. Jerks…

Inspiration for a blog entry of late has been a little hard. Anything I might want to write about pales as shallowness compared to the goings on in Asia recently.

Below are two links to some implications of the Sichuan earth quake. They begin to address an issue I’ve been pondering of late…

http://video.on.nytimes.com/?fr_story=33c853f1e465517686b2ff5fa595f8f1d964b1e9

http://www.nytimes.com/slideshow/2008/05/28/world/20080528QUAKE_index.html

…the many social impacts of economics.

The story in these above links is more clearly understood by the poor. The rich (us) live in housing safe from weather, with reliable infrastructure that ensures we stay safer and if there is a problem help is delivered quicker than a pizza.

In a previous post I wrote of my unhealthy obsession with demolition. Around these parts there’s plenty of it going down and the character/word chai, as pictured below, is plastered over every part of the building within reach of the aerosol wielding “artist”. Chai means demolish.

For me the word chai has begun to symbolize my city as I see it multiple times every day. I’d become a little too fascinated with it. I had plans to turn it into art. “Chai art”. And then of course plaster it on T-shirts, coffee mugs, hats, and anything else that might sell. So I set out to make myself into the famous and rich artist I deserved to be.   

I started by photographing every chai (demolish) I saw on a local six storey building only to discover that the neighbouring building was also covered in demolish and the next and the next… two entire city blocks. In all about 15 buildings each containing at least 48 homes and multiple small businesses. That’s about 720 homes. The ground floors of these six storey buildings were tagged with demolish and professionally painted propaganda slogans stating, “Leave early and stay safe” and “Live peacefully move soon”.   

Demolition companies are contracted to flatten the old buildings and encourage the locals to move soon, stay safe and live peacefully. They achieve this by first knocking down community facilities like bicycle sheds, add-on storage rooms and small private markets that are out of “building code”. Once flattened the rubble from these illegal annexes is left awkwardly strewn across the common space. Then to make the environment more peaceful, loud speakers are strung up high and turned on full with a polite reassuring voice firmly reminding the locals from early in the day until late into the evening that, “NOW would be the best time to move”.

These looped announcements are so loud that it’s difficult to hold a conversation. I had some friendly yellversations with a few of the locals who explained there’s nothing they can do to stop all this. They thought my country must be better than theirs… I felt sad, and they humiliated. They were losing their home.   

To begin to understand, imagine a developer sending in some slack-jaw-yokel to tag demolish all over your house because they planned to buy it off you. Then to help you understand signs are placed all over your front yard explaining why it’s best to take the money and leave now. And then your house is blasted with a friendly looped message that reminds you to move before they cut off your water, gas, electricity, telephone and public heating pipes before the sub-zero winter sets in.   

As I continued on from the demolition site a young guy handed me a flyer encouraging me buy a beautiful new apartment to be built in the same location. It was full of thesaurus English in fancy script font, which made little sense, “Harmonic living style”, “Passivity abode”, “Jubilant exist delight”.   

I’m not so chai any more.

For just about every one of the 2000 or more days that we’ve resided here we’ve seen people getting around with what looks like large purple hickeys. Did they have a rash? Did they get hit with 20 baseballs? Or has someone been playing with an industrial vacuum cleaner?

No. It is called baguan (bar~gw~R) or hot cupping and it’s a cure-all for ALL that ails you. What can’t be fixed by being tapped with an *I.V. line/bag seemingly can be with 20 glass bulbous like cups. A small flame is used to create low pressure inside the cup before it’s dropped with a “thhhhup” onto your back. The low pressure inside the cup then allows you skin, with flesh attached, to stretch and pinch its way deep into the cup.  

So did I really want to have 18 or so large bruised, itching, sun burnt like welts on my back? Hmmm… maybe and no. I was up for a regular Zhongyi (Chinese medical) massage but it was at a new up-market set up. So when the guy in the white lab coat wheeled out a trolley of clinking glass bulbous cups my fear levels began peaking. ‘White lab coat guy’ sensed the fear or simply saw my contorted face and asked, “Are you afraid?” He had challenged my macho pride, “No, no. Of course not,” I replied. Oh was I ever quivering and on the inside telling myself, “You idiot.” Later that night as the light rubbing of my shirt caused stinging pain to numerous welts I told my self out loud, “You idiot.”  

At the time I told myself “Sure it kills but later on you’ll feel better.” It’s funny how denial twists reality and allows me to do completely stupid things.  

Denial lied to me. It really hurts to be lied to. 

* A trip to the doctor for a cold, the runs, a severed limb or unexplained hair growth can be treated with an I.V. line/bag. Most hospitals here have a large room at the entrance filled with big comfy couches each with its own I.V. stand and hook.

Within 24 hours of posting my last post I came home to find the below scene.

A three year old three foot Ultra Man taking on Bob the Builder (Hou Yi- Aunty Hou). However menacing a three foot Ultra Man can be Hou Yi defended herself gallantly with the toy rake.

And yes the Ultra Man gear was a gift that made it through our defenses. It’s a struggle to hold up our pacifist ways with the ever vigilant war mongers giving my children birthday/Christmas presents. 

In my travels I’ve had the privilege of visiting 23 countries around the world. Which has left me with stories that can bore the average listener quicker than a *caravan owner’s family vacation video. Although I do treasure all I have seen and experienced in my travels. Like being shot at while climbing Barcelona’s Montjuic, or pulling a drowning kid from the Russian River (in California), or introducing myself as the Dali Lama to some Tibetan teenagers, and the list goes on… I could bore you thoroughly with it but I’ll show mercy and self control.

My self constraint though is only limited to travel stories. So here’s a few things I’ve experienced since living in the North East, of the country in which I live, that are different to my western world and occasionally alarming. Like:

1 Someone carrying a full sized refrigerator strapped to the side of their bicycle.

2 Rafting a river on inflated sheep skins.

3 Playing basketball with the equivalent of the CIA and accidentally beating them.

4 Being close enough to have a conversation with a wrecking crane driver while he swung the wrecking ball into the seven story building only 15 meters away. It got a little hard at times to talk especially when the building fell down.

5 Watching an international stadium implode, from the comfort of a five star hotel.

6 Watching just about every landmark within a half kilometer radius be demolished and redeveloped.

Which leaves me with my current obsession… DEMOLITION.

I can’t help seeking out buildings, bridges, stadiums, and any standing structure made from steel and concrete to watch it fall. There’s explosions, bulldozers, wrecking balls, extendable chomping claws, crane sized jack hammers, workers with no hard hats, and a readily made viewing area. To be exact the viewing area is pretty much where ever you find yourself: in the post office watching the wrecking ball glide past the window; or as a member of the informal street party that quickly disbands when the dust from the falling building over comes us; or from the more refined comforts of a five star hotel executive floor.

If there were a support group for demolition addicts I would need to join. “Hi, my name’s Damian. It’s been two days since I watched my last FTS (fixed structure collapse)… to be honest there’s a little bit of me wishing this building would fall down right now.” And my support group would answer, “We hear you man, just to have a wrecking ball come flying through that wall would be something else… wouldn’t it? But we gotta fight that mannnn. Like, you know, it’s destructive…” Then we’d all cry and pound our fists at the air…

I don’t need help though. I’ll stop just as soon as the banks stop handing out money to developers.

* A caravan, for the “non” commonwealth readers is a largish box on wheels with windows (and a door) you can tow behind your family vehicle. It promises all the convenience of a real home but delivers the comfort of an airplane restroom. These are usually owned by retirees and/or the mis-guided. And watching them being destroyed by monster trucks IS fun.

I no longer live in a western world where personal space can be valued as a right. The words worship or idolatry sometimes aren’t strong enough to describe the attitude some western countries have towards personal space.

When we westerners sit there’s a “natural” perimeter we have. If you’re sitting now, stick your elbows straight out and that’s about the space you supposedly own. When we stand talking we should apply the *netball three feet rule. When we bump someone in the street we apologize. Knocking feet under the table results in the instant withdrawal of feet by both party A and party B. Accidentally touching someone with the front or back of your hand is followed by profuse and clumsy apologies to ensure the touchee understands that the toucher wasn’t groping them.

The great Australian dream has a front yard, double garage and a backyard that are all sacred to the owners, who are likely to feel violated if an “uninvited” breaks the boundaries. If the legal, yet invisible boundary isn’t working then a large obstructing wall/fence is built. Those who aren’t living the real dream and don’t have yards to protect them, then there’s the parking bay to war over.

Then the motor vehicle…

A few days ago a fully laden oncoming minibus swung onto the wrong side of the road and down my lane (or the lane I was in). I chose to flash the head lights vigorously and keep my hand on the horn. My intent was to let the driver know that I was indeed there and that if we collided it would be his fault. Call me chicken, but I then changed lanes and continued on.

If this happened some years before in the western world as my western self, my response would have been a little different. There would have been: involuntary and non-child appropriate language; the taking down of vehicle registration; pulling over and comforting the shaken passengers;  a call to the police; a possible call to a talk back radio to re-enforce the never ending cycle of stupid driver call-ins; and then a vow to avenge on behalf of all us “good” drivers.

So even when a driver makes a less than okay choice to drive the wrong way down a lane and break the law and put me and my passengers and his passengers at risk of harm, why is there no anger? I could have an issue with suppressing anger or I might have come to some understanding of the concept of “common space”. That is to say that our western sense of a personal space in which we “own” the area around us is pretty much a farce. Our concept of personal space creates a sense of security and control of self. So when our sense of security and/or our control of self is interrupted we feel violated. And our response is often outrage. When in reality we’re just getting a little glimpse at what a large section of the world’s population expects…

“MI CASA, SU CASA.” (For some reason clichés in another language are far more profound.)

*Netball is predominantly a women’s sport that Australia and New Zealand obsess over. Men are invited to play in mixed social teams and usually discover within themselves high doses of self loathing, spirit breaking apathy and sympathy for families of the middle age women who referee/manipulate the game. But it is a great game and all women are wonderful… 

If the title has led you to believe that this post is about pre-tribulation rapture theology, then I apologize profusely. And just in case you did want to read about the rapture take a look around… we’re all still here!

No. This post will look at being a “Trailing Spouse”, or “Trailer” as I prefer to be known. For all you folk not living the expatriate life: when a couple/family live and work abroad the wife may stay “at home” (i.e. work for no financial gain) and they are some times known as the “expat wife”. And the word work is used differently in this context because in developing countries there’s often the opportunity to employ house hold help so it can be more of home management than domestic work. A friend once said that if re-incarnation was real, then he hoped to come back as an expat wife… plenty of time for study, friends, coffee, shopping, massages, pedicures, travel, etc…

So in the expatriate situation what do you call the man when the wife works and the husband (or equivalent) manages the household for no financial gain? Well, you call him the gender free title of “Trailing Spouse” (a close cousin of the house husband). Besides following, straggling and causing drain as our title suggests we find our self-worth in places we never thought possible.

Our self worth is in responding to the cries of our young children telling us, “I need poo poo” or “I need wee wee” or “My doodle’s ouchy”.

Then of course there’s the stuff you get to teach your young children when the mother is out, like:
Guns are bad.
Thumbs up = good.
Thumbs down = bad.
Selected quotes from the Simpsons.
How to blame others when you belch.
How to massage dad’s back.
The finer points of wrestling.
Indoctrinate them with the idea that dad was an international superstar in just about everything.

We are a marginalized group, us “Male Trailers”. Our value is questioned and we are shunned by the expat wives… “It’s just not natural”, they murmur as we pass by. So there’s no invite to study, coffee, shop, massages, pedicures or travel.

But we’re content because we know that the havoc we secretly reek on the impressionable minds of young’ns will have a long term positive impact.

The world will one day not use guns to negotiate, but will use thumbs up or down to solve tricky international incidents. If that fails exchanges of Simpson quotes can be bantered around the room and someone could start some ventriloquistic belches to break the tension. Failing that a round of elderly decision makers being massaged while they watch the young power brokers wrestle should smooth thing over. And heaven forbid that not succeeding, then it’ll all come down to whose dad is better than your dad.

Or of course this could be avoided if the wives (and equivalents) were the primary money earners. This might normalize the male “trailing spouse” experience, then everyone might just be happy and there might be no need for negotiations.

But what’s the chances?