Beijing Tai Tai

by Tania McCartney

  Now, you have to understand that a Beijing market experience is a wonder to behold. Sure, it’s migraine-inducing, even a little suicidal at times, but it’s also a wondrous experience of designer joys for very little cash. It would be easy to go a little coco bananas in a Beijing market of any kind, but a wholesale market—where items are at wholesale prices? I mean, this is where the marketeers from the Silk Market go to find their wares! Imagine!

  Also imagine, if you will, a Western woman (tragic first-timer) exiting Tianyi after two hours of solid acquisitioning, waddling out with five times her girth in black plastic garbage bags. A suburban pack horse (or garbage tip).

  Yes, this is what happened, readers, I’m ashamed to say. I pack-horsed my way out of that market and I brought home so much junk, I thought I might faint when I unpeeled everything from the bags and spread them across the lounge room floor.

  Coco bananas, all right.

  Two Hermès copy bags for the price of one plastic number at Target. A stash of wrapping paper and shimmering ribbons that would take me seven years (and a month’s wages) to amass in Australia. Converse shoes for the price of shoelaces. Gap hoodies cheaper than a pair of socks. Diesel t-shirts for the price of a latte.

  It was like being stunned with the slap of a wet fish, only it didn’t stink at all. It was a divine and surreal experience. I was hopping around like a gluttonous flea, barely able to contain myself from tearing open my bounty. Heavenly and heavens of heavens.

  So now I only have three problems. One: where on earth am I going to store all this stuff? Two: how can I justify this appalling consumption of consumables to Ayi and Xiansheng, let alone myself? And three: which market next??

  Spitting and Whizzing in the Street

  As opposed to the toilet bowl

  You may have heard of split pants—those crotchless duds Chinese babies wear from the early months through their first year. It doesn’t take these kids long to toilet train, and neither would you if you were allowed to whiz and poop on every surface, including the lounge room floor.

  Initially, this toilet-training method kind of makes sense; it’s quick, easy and extends well back to the familial roots of our ancient ancestors, whereby mothers instinctively knew a bowel movement was nearing the end of their child’s intestinal journey, just by glancing. It’s quick, no fuss, runs on instinct and teaches kids early control. But then, a really important component called Hygiene rears its sparkling head. Not much hygiene going on in a house where one can find whiz and poop on the floor. Nor in the streets, where it’s pretty much everywhere. No wonder the Chinese take their shoes off upon entering their homes.

  So, despite an admiration for many Chinese ways, this is not one that I (along with most Westerners) understand nor condone. Most of us take years to train our gag reflex to cope with squat toilets let alone a go-anywhere-you-like system. Many a time I’ve watched children as old as ten toileting themselves in the street. Whizzing in the bushes is perhaps okay, but laying a turd in the middle of a city sidewalk ... Forgive me if I poo-poo that idea.

  I’ll never forget watching a grandmother dack a two-year-old, who promptly squatted and emptied its bladder in the middle of a pavement of pedestrians, despite the multitude of grassy patches, trees and other options only centimetres away. Even one side of the path would have been more acceptable than right in the middle of it.

  So, this is something I’m struggling with, along with the spitting. I remember my first spit experience. It was in our first week, at one of The Jing’s nicest department stores, in the lamp section. I slipped on one—green and plump. I think I threw that shoe out, and my stomach still turns at the thought of it.

  Since then, I’ve mostly just encountered them on the street, and this has led to an uncanny ability to glaze my eyes over when walking on the pavement. Now I just see a haze of pale green spots which I quick-step and trit-trot over like an Irish dancer in need of the loo. You just can’t think about it too much. And God forbid if the spot is brown.

  There are some things you have to accept in life. Doesn’t mean you have to agree with them or even like them, but you may just have to live with them. And the faster we learn to live with these natural Chinese phenomena, the closer we’ll feel to fitting in. Hygiene notwithstanding.

  Scraping the Sky

  Those magnificent men on their dental floss strings

  Today we saw something outside our window that had us tearing around the apartment screaming. No, it wasn’t Armageddon rolling over the distant northern mountains. Neither was it Santa performing practice laps in his sleigh over the Worker’s Stadium.

  It was window cleaners.

  I mean— how? Twenty-six storeys high? On a single rope? Come on. That’s just crazy. I would jump up and down until the centre of the earth shattered if my son told me he was going to scale buildings like King Kong and scrape squeegees over windows while dangling from a piece of string.

  There’s a lot of building going on around Beijing right now, and plenty of suspect safety laws in place (or indeed, no laws at all), so seeing these men dangling from that piece of string, hauling themselves from window to window with no other safety harnesses, no platform, no protective gear other than a pair of overalls and a wet rag ... it was extremely unnerving.

  The kids, of course, thought it was brilliant. Those poor puppets on strings became supreme entertainment, and all credit to them for keeping totally immersed and professional while my kids clambered on the windowsills. They’d obviously been told to respect the privacy of the tenants and virtually treat our windows as mirrors—not once did those fellows show even the slightest indication they could see us. Their eyeballs instead stuck firmly to a depth no greater than the actual surface of the glass. Very impressive.

  And our windows? Thanks to these daredevils, we can now see forever. Well, as far as the Beijing smog will allow, anyway.

  The Great Outdoors

  Beijing’s death-defying playgrounds

  Ah, the great outdoors—Beijing-style. An outdoors fraught with all manner of death-defying excitement. Why not go outside and try it today? Kids can watch in hilarity as parents fuss themselves into a lather over cat whiz, dog poop, human saliva and shards of metal or broken wires jutting from the grass, park bench, wall or children’s play equipment. The entertainment value for kids on parental distress cannot be underestimated.

  Indeed, probably the happiest outdoor place for expat kiddies in Beijing is a Chinese playground, conveniently located in a cement-padded, shadeless spot in most Beijing parks, and boasting trains, dodgem cars and oxidised merry-go-rounds from 1952. There’s Ditan, Ritan, Longtan, Tiantan—park location not important. Wherever you choose, a stressful experience is guaranteed.

  The good old ‘pay away’ system endemic to these playgrounds is a great way to lose post-baby weight. You enter the playground, select a ride, then traipse around looking for the appropriate ticket booth, which could be up to 50 metres away. Not a good thing when you’ve just installed toddlers, prams, feed sacks, drinks and discarded shoes next to said ride.

  So, you grab protesting be-socked babies, pack everything up, traipse over to the ticket booth and attempt to explain the ride you want, complete with barking, mooing, whooshing and bouncing until your bra snaps. You’ll then be given a ticket for a ride you don’t want (who knew a helicopter charade could pass for fishing in a plastic pond?) or it won’t be for the right time of day or is unable to be used during February or if your name ends in R.

  I’m not exaggerating.

  Your intense frustration will then be heightened by your wailing babies and the sudden blast of screechy pop songs and Christmas carols from the 1970s, as another rusting ride cranks into life.

  Yes, these outdoor playgrounds have enough adrenaline-gushing risk to send any kid into gung-ho superhero mode, impervious to any danger. You will grit your teeth as the rides rattle and roll and careen; yet, all the while, your kids will be totally entranced, totally immersed, overcome
with the cranking, joyous noise of it all—the kitschness, the subtle protruding-wire danger, the ... the ... Chinese-ness.

  And, amidst the noise and the squeals, you’ll actually feel like you’re achieving something by keeping your toddler relatively safe in these crazy surroundings, where Chinese kids run amok and get good and filthy without a wet-wipe in sight, and their faces are glowing and their parents (or more likely grandparents) are gazing at them with such love and such all-encompassing adoration.

  And suddenly you are filled with a renewed sense of love for your own children, and even though your eyes stay locked on their every move, the intensity of your gaze softens a little. The muck and the protruding wires and the rusty patches seem less threatening ... and you remember where you are on the planet and you just feel good.

  Oh, hang it. Wet-wipes, please!

  Taxi!

  To ride or not to ride...

  Today I had to stuff our kids into a taxi with no seatbelts. It was horrifying to me. How incredibly negligent to ride the hazardous streets of Beijing completely belt-free. I mean, come on. This kind of thing attracts a whopping great fine in Australia and is absolutely unheard of; you just wouldn’t get into a car without a firm, operational seatbelt for every occupant. Well, anyone with a brain wouldn’t, anyway.

  Beijing is a little bit different (along with most of Asia, for that matter). But then I guess if people are riding motorbikes and bicycles without helmets, and if parents are dinking kids on the back of their bikes with nary a harness nor protective head gear in sight, and if window-washers dangle from 30-storey buildings by a piece of dental floss, I suppose seatbelts in cars are also an afterthought.

  So what to do? Stay out of taxis? Stay at home and never leave? We have a car but Xiansheng uses it for work and if I need to ferry the kids around during the day, what do I do?

  It’s a rarity, but I did need to take them out today, and a cab was the only option. Oh, the parental guilt when I stuffed my two-year-old and four-year-old into their first belt-less taxi. The shame! The negligence! Terrible mother!

  I tried to justify the trip by telling myself it was only around the corner, and that the traffic in Beijing is so bad we can only travel a few kilometres an hour. But the raging guilt continued so I grabbed both kids and locked them in a vice-like grip in the back seat, mentally prepping every swerve with preventative safety measures. The kids didn’t utter a word of protest as I avidly braced for the possibility of a bingle (probably because they also couldn’t breathe).

  Anyway, we made it there and back easily and without a scrape, other than two very sore diaphragms and a mother who stumbled out of the taxi wild-eyed and bushy-haired.

  Will I do it again? Maybe. After all, we also brought our kids to a country with the highest hepatitis rate in the world, an almost nonexistent percentage of canine rabies vaccination, and pollution levels high enough to turn your lungs to pus.

  Frankly, every day is like a taxi ride with no seatbelts.

  Liangma Flower Market

  The first time ever I saw your blooms...

  When we first arrived in Beijing, we were taken to the Liangma flower market near the north-east Third Ring Road. It’s quite a small market, yet when we pushed through the front doors, the assault on my senses was something I’ll never forget.

  Visually, it was a Wizard of Oz movie-set of wonder: rows and rows and rows of blooms in every colour and variety imaginable—so bright, so luscious, my eyes boggled. I actually had to close them to cope with the beauty.

  There were white lilies popping from dark green sticks like clusters of stars and roses in every imaginable hue, each sweet head encased in a soft netted bonnet, to keep the petals from furling outwards. Some bonnetless roses even had their petals dipped in sparkling blue glitter. There were orchids, too—elegant painted ladies dipping their heads into the fragrant perfume of purple hyacinth below. There were pastel lisianthus, miniature daisies and blousy collections of flouncing pink peonies.

  Our eyes were awash. And that was only our eyeballs. You know that wonderful, musky smell you get when you walk past a florist? Well times it by one hundred, and that is the scent that descends upon you when you enter Liangma for the first time. It slips up your nostrils and turns on something wonderfully floral in your brain.

  Needless to say, when we left the market, I was toting several forests of flowers, and Xiansheng was also lugging an Amazon jungle or two. And I mean lugging. We had three white orchid plants, a couple of small green shrubs, and probably eight or nine bunches of blooms. And the most blissful thing of all? The entire lot cost the equivalent of a single bunch of flowers in Australia.

  Floral heaven.

  I now visit weekly and know the vendors already. I know the ribbon lady on the first floor who lost her husband in a car accident (one of the many Chinese to suffer this fate; seatbelt, anyone?). I know the check-out chick upstairs who is pregnant. I know the lady in the plant section who gives me the best laowai price on orchids in Beijing. It’s a community of plants and flowers, and every week, I return home with my arms piled so high, I can’t see over the top.

  Ayi just stares at me when I struggle in the door with my forest of flowers, horrified at such a flagrant waste of money. Indeed, it seems cut flowers last half the length of time they do in Australia—probably a combination of the questionable water and the chronically drying air. Peonies are particularly prone to this phenomenon; they seem to last just minutes, but boy do they put on a show. Blousy, pouffy, delicate, succulent—no one could stare into a peony and not want to bury their nose deep into its folds. No wonder it’s China’s national bloom.

  I’m burying, sniffing and drowsy from the perfume ... and making the most of every scented moment.

  The Ayi Love Triangle

  Parenting is a relative concept

  The gods are smiling on you, little one. Who is she, this dark-haired angel on earth who will acquiesce to your every mortal and spiritual need before the demand has even arisen? Part psychic, part adoring fawner, this woman has been sent from above to provide all that your mum and dad will not. Yes ... even in a pink fit and during a blue moon.

  Of course, you are naturally oblivious to the tension and frustration this total compliance causes your mum, but what does it matter? At least two of you in this parental triangle are happy. You have the need for adoration and Ayi has the need to give it ... a pure and harmonious union that Mum will never understand. Instead, Dragon Woman watches from the sidelines, trying not to sweat the small stuff; hoping, in her heart of hearts, this will not turn you into a discipline-deprived despot before the year is out.

  No, this is not a description of my son and his ayi. This is a description of someone else’s son/daughter/dog and their ayi.

  My ayi doesn’t seem to be developing this kind of relationship with my kids. She’s not overly warm nor affectionate, and, frankly, she’s much more interested in just getting her work done and getting out the door. This suits me okay. I don’t want a mummy replacement in my house and I don’t think I’d want the deep emotional attachment I’m watching develop between other ayis and their charges.

  Each to their own, but I wouldn’t want the drama. Nor do I want to be squabbling with another adult over the best way to discipline or raise my own kids. This is bad enough in the West, and Lord knows the Chinese do things very differently here—the whizzing and the pooping is only the tip of the iceberg.

  Yes, I’m glad my ayi is just getting on with her business and skirting around my kids. Maybe it’s a good thing. Or maybe I’m just telling myself this because I see those other ayis smooching their charges and fawning over their every move ... and perhaps I’m jealous.

  Just maybe.

  Our First Tea Ceremony

  Oh joy!

  In a nutshell, life is made up of these things: mental, physical and emotional challenges; wondrously huge life-changing experiences; plenty of mundanity; and those little ‘moments’. Those moments that make life bea
utiful. They can be short moments like when your child encircles their arms around your neck and lands their sweet lips on your cheek, or when you catch them chatting to imaginary friends. Or they can be longer moments like hikes between the Jinshanling and Simitai sections of the Great Wall ... or Chinese tea ceremonies.

  Ah, the ceremony of tea. Such a lovely thing to do—and a bonus if you like tea, particularly green tea. I could bathe in green tea nightly, so quaffing the stuff, in an extensive range of styles, is quite all right by me.

  Today we went with the kids to the network of streets just south of Qianmen Dajie, to a little teahouse with beautiful girls in green silk standing outside, lulling you in with the waft of oolong. We walked to the back of the store, past the glass containers housing grassy tea, to a nest of tables topped with beautiful serving trays and teapots in glass and clay.

  The girl who took the tea ceremony spoke a little English, but even if she hadn’t, the beauty and understanding that comes with this ancient ritual really defies language barriers.

  This is what they do...

  First, boiling water is brought to your table and placed on the carved wooden serving tray, then the server will tip the steaming water onto dried green leaves in a glass teapot. She will swirl the leaves briefly, then tip the water out (to clean the leaves). Then she will add more water and replace the lid. Here she will pause.

  After a few moments, the server will pour the tea into very small, tube-like cups and top them with little handle-less teacups, like a jiggly lid. She will then hand this capped cup to each guest who will pick it up, flip it upside town and pull the tubed cup out. The tea will schplonk into the lid and then everyone drinks—three sips to drain the cup is best. When the tea is drained, you smell the cup and then bring the tube-like vessel close to your open eyeball, to glaze it with hydrating steam.