Beijing Tai Tai

by Tania McCartney

  From the top of Coal Hill, which was created from the earth dredged to make the moat around the Forbidden City, we stopped for a breather and gazed at the view of Beijing over the ochre rooftops of the Forbidden City, which stretches forever. It’s a remarkable view— a spot where one can sit and only begin to ponder the extraordinary the world. The concubines, the eunuchs, the minions and the officials, world that was once so central to China and its people. The centre of all busily scurrying and liaising and creating a unique and total world for a single Emperor, the king of the Middle Kingdom.

  We loved our Jingshan Park experience and we’ll be sending visitors back there whenever they visit. There may not be screaming kiddie rides, jumping castles and a kiosk on every footpath, but there is a spirit there that makes your heart melt and pulls you back inside another time.

  And for our family, that’s what being in China is all about.

  Up in Smoke

  Does every single lung in China smoke?

  Sheesh, will I ever find a café without inhaling smouldering cancer? I’m really getting over it. It’s not charming in that Parisian-café sort of way anymore. It’s offensive.

  It’s especially offensive because smokers in China don’t just smoke, they chain smoke. They butt-light the next stick without so much as a rattling gasp betwixt, and they huff and they puff and they huff and they puff like the big bad wolf. It’s like this: they sit down and light up. Sometimes they light up before their bums have even hit the seat. And then they burn these cancerous sticks like they’re incense and they’re Buddha sitting in the centre of their own smoky temple.

  Being a country where people don’t seem to like wind or any kind of cool or fresh air, many Chinese venues are overheated and stuffy to start with. Imagine, then, the oppression of an 80 to 90 per cent smoke rate wherever you go, with nary a whisper of breeze in sight.

  I’m over it. I go to a café, hook up the laptop, get stuck into my work, and within minutes my eyes are burning and my throat is choking shut. This morning, I packed up my laptop moments after a patron arrived, sat right next to me and proceeded to blow smoke directly into my face.

  I was livid.

  I stood, I glared at him. Typically, he had absolutely no idea what I was glaring about. So I glared harder and most particularly at the cigarette, like my eyeballs had unhinged and were prodding it firmly. Still no clue; he just continued to stare at me blankly then started chatting with his friends, who all lit up as well.

  With frustration levels peaking, I decided to make it really obvious how inconvenienced and annoyed I was at having to leave the café. So I fanned the air and clutched at my chest and coughed and hacked and caused a right scene. Then I looked pointedly at his cigarette, rolled my eyes and walked out. Such a drama queen, me.

  His response? Laughter. His friends laughed, too. And then began a running commentary on what I’d just done and why I did it. I didn’t care; at least they finally (and perhaps ineffectively) got it. And if I have to resort to slapstick to get my message across then I guess that’s just what I’ll have to do.

  Meanwhile, Old Smoky and his mates will be dining out on this story for a month.

  Dongxi

  Navigating Mandarin

  My Mandarin is a poor shade of basic. After a year of slacko study in Adelaide and six months of saturation in Beijing, it’s still an off shade, but at least I can get by. ‘Me speak good Chinese and me likey your shoes of big pink, where you buy and how much you pay?’ would probably most accurately represent the way I speak Mandarin.

  Xiansheng calls it ‘street Chinese’. If I need to shop, eat, ask directions or argue with someone, I’m pretty much covered, though my vocabulary is so poor, I’ve been known to insert the word dongxi (‘thing’, pronounced doong-shee) several times in a single sentence. You know: ‘I love that red dongxi with the dongxi on top which you can use for eating slippery dongxi’ kind of statements.

  Coupled with pointing, gesticulating, using complicated facial cues and loads of onomatopoeia (crash, whoosh, tinkle, splat), you can get surprisingly far in Mandarin. The Chinese love it when you try, and they’ll go out of their way to tell you how well you speak the language, regardless of the incomprehensible crap tumbling from your mouth (the complete opposite of the French, who will exasperatingly point out even the slightest accent slip).

  Basically, if you have the confidence to give it a go and don’t really care how stupid you sound, you can learn Mandarin almost solely on just ‘giving it a go’. That’s how I’ve done it. I’m not saying you will speak it well, but you will definitely learn to speak more than enough to get by and give local Chinese a smile, to boot.

  In a verbal sense, Mandarin is intensely complex yet has an unexpected simplicity in its everyday vernacular. If I jump in a cab in Australia, I say something like: ‘Hi, how’s it going? I just want to go to the Sydney Harbour Bridge, please. The north side, near that gorgeous park. Lovely day, isn’t it? Have you been driving a taxi long?’

  In China, communications are kept to the point, so it’s not considered rude to just get in a cab, state your destination then ‘stop here’ without so much as a hello, goodbye, please or thank you. Not rude at all.

  So, when I take a taxi, I jump in and say, ‘Tian’anmen Square.’ If I add, ‘Hello. How are you? Nice, clean taxi. Is the pineapple on the back windowsill yours or did your wife put it there to keep things fresh, as my Lordy Lord you stink to high heaven—that stale smoke, garlic and bai jiu fumes are making my eyes water,’ the driver will turn around slowly and give me a ‘get out of my cab, you deranged maniac’ stare. Either that, or he’ll just say ‘Shenme?’ (what?).

  When my ayi wants cash to buy the groceries, she says to me, ‘Madam, give me 200 kuai’ ( kuai is slang for money). I remember the first time she said it, I was sort of like, ‘What do you saaaay?’ It was hard to hear her effectively demand money, but over time my understanding of the abridged use of Mandarin has deepened, and the tone of the language coupled with the spirit it’s said in somehow allows this rather clipped vernacular leeway. It just works.

  Perhaps it’s the fact that the Chinese have to fight 1.3 billion other people for anything and everything they want in life that makes them operate with such succinct communiqués.

  When I began studying French in my late teens, I was convinced it was the most romantic language in the world, yet there is something about Mandarin that’s also lucidly romantic. There is a certain poetry, despite its often officious discourse. There is meaning and content in single words that English could never conjure. Take the word hao (good), for example. It can conjure entire fairytales of meaning, depending on the context and tone used. Add it to certain other words and it becomes intensely rich in verbal imagery.

  In a bid to understand more, I did start formal Mandarin lessons with a cute Chinese chick with a Ming Dynasty haircut, back in Month Three. I knew it was going to be a challenge when her first words to me were giggle giggle giggle giggle giggle giggle giggle.

  My second clue was when she spent the first three lessons having me sound out Chinese vowels like I was a tone deaf mute (and in front of a café audience, no less). ‘No—louder!’ she’d say, ‘No—it’s ooeui not ooeui! Try again!’ So I’d reluctantly oblige, much to the stares and frustration of my fellow café patrons, intent on a peaceful hour while some Australian broad ooeuid and oooahhd like an unhinged linguistic monk.

  I didn’t get far with the lessons. I did maybe seven out of the ten I paid for, and the last lesson was the clincher for me; it involved a sixminute (I kid you not, I really kid you not) giggle fit from Cute Chinese Chick that had me initially smiling, then frowning, then staring in horror, then hiding my face in shame.

  And what was the laughing fit over? It was when I said a sentence including the word for ten— shi. Cute Chick told me I had just said I wanted to pash her. Cute, yes. Funny? Perhaps for a moment or two, however, by the end of six minutes of pealing laughter, my face was stone cold. I ki
nd of never saw her again.

  It wasn’t because I didn’t want to pash her. I’m sure, if I was that way inclined, she would have absolutely been my first choice. She had a cute Ming Dynasty haircut, after all.

  Fashion Schmashion

  It’s bedazzling

  When I first saw sequins on the street before lunchtime, it was blinding. I’m sort of used to it now but it still makes me mildly nauseous, as does the studded, tasselled boots and the bedazzled cardigans, not to mention the frills, lace and perms.

  Why? Why are local Beijingers caught in an’80s time warp? They are such a gorgeous race of people: slim; divine skin; shiny, swinging hair; lustrous eyes. Why are they committing fashion suicide? One look at the choice inside a clothing market geared towards locals, and I had to run out and breathe into a brown paper stylista bag.

  I’ve met many Westerners here in Beijing who can tell me of the days when Beijingren wore a layman uniform of grey button-down shirts and cloth caps. Since the’80s (a coincidence?), I suppose you could say they are branching out. Like a six-year-old let loose in a dressup box, it may take them a little time to find their fashion rhythm. What they really need is Chinese Vogue. Lucky then, that the magazine officially launched here recently. And hallelujah—the clothes on its pages are good. Not a bedazzlement-before-midday in sight.

  China, there’s now absolutely no excuse. No more perms! No more spangles! No more rhinestones crocheted into cardigans and no more white vinyl boots! At least not before midnight and not outside a nightclub.

  I’ll be watching you.

  Yours cordially, the self-appointed Fashion Police.

  Ayi Envy

  Thou shalt not covet thy neighbours’ ayi

  It’s shameful, I know, but I am breaking the Eleventh Commandment and coveting my neighbours’ ayi. Don’t get me wrong, my ayi does a great job, is efficient, reliable and mostly pleasant. She’s just not that likeable.

  This would be perfectly okay if I worked full time and didn’t have kids, but because we have to share the house most days, we interact frequently, especially because Ayi finds it imperative to fill me in on every domestic move she makes.

  ‘The tomatoes cost five jiao (1.6 cents) more today, is that okay or do you want me to wait til tomorrow? Furen! Furen! Emergency! I can’t fit the waffles in the freezer! Just to let you know I’m down to only 48 garbage bags so I’ll get some more tomorrow. I think these leftovers from last Christmas could be thrown out now, furen, what do you think?’

  I’ve taken to telling her: ‘Wo bu yao zhidao.’ I don’t want to know. Unless it’s life-threatening, I don’t want to know. ‘You deal with it, Ayi.’

  You see, she’s a bit of a talker, my ayi. I’ve heard her talk to engineers and reception staff and other ayis, even taxi drivers, right in front of me, blabbing about our family and our life. I don’t think what she says is malicious—I just don’t like the intimacies of our life revealed to all and sundry. When I told her this, she told me she didn’t do it. I told her I begged to differ.

  One time, the reception staff in our building were translating for us and Ayi began telling them, ‘Furen thinks I talk to people about her family, blah blah blah’ and I simply said, ‘Well, you’re doing it right now.’ Ayi stopped dead in her tracks and the realisation hit her like a packet of flying tofu.

  Hello!

  My other gripe (thanks for listening) with Ayi is that she hoards. And I don’t mean useful stuff. Pieces of broken wire, strange plastic or metal objects that once belonged to an unidentifiable object no one ever used. Grimy, used Ziploc bags. Every single tin, container and jar that ever contained anything—ever.

  I know and appreciate that this woman came from a generation who recycled the thread from one garment to hem another, mostly out of necessity, but this is also a generation that still burns coal, turns on every light until the house is ablaze, and gushes water down the sink like it’s sourced from an endless magical ocean. In fact, Ayi consistently splashes water around like a recalcitrant hose.

  I’m teaching Ayi about recycling and saving power and it’s like shifting a tablet at Stonehenge. It’s tough, especially when she looks at me like I’m a five-year-old brat trying to tell an ancient sage the secrets to the universe. Which brings me to the Attitude Problem.

  Sheesh, I’m going to sound like a gripester here, but I have to tell you about the Attitude Problem because it’s becoming a real, unexpected issue in our house.

  I think I’m a relatively easygoing furen. I’m not a witch, not fussy nor pedantic. I’m generous and even quite kind. I frequently let small things go, and trust me, I know plenty of tai tai who torture their ayis over substandard cleaning. Ayi works in a warm, friendly household, so why she’s started with the Attitude Problem is really beyond me.

  It actually seems to happen every three to four months. Things can be exactly the same in our house but Ayi gets inexplicably shitty. She grumbles. She slams things. She argues with me when I ask her to do something simple. She huffs, twists her lips together, nods silently as though she’s been mortally wounded and shuffles off.

  Ayi isn’t perfect—she’s done a crappy, half-arsed job plenty of times and I’ve tolerated it fine. But this Attitude Problem undoes me. I find it infuriating and monumentally stressful. This is my home, for goodness sake. Ayi’s got it good and it torments me when she does this. In fact, it’s so awful, it makes me long for the days of No Ayi, and makes me wonder about the need for an ayi at all.

  I have three neighbours who have lovely ayis. I mean, I know we all have challenges with them—no matter how ‘perfect’, our cultural differences are just too ingrained—but some ayis are easier to handle than others. These three lovely ayis are just so sweet and they are quiet. They don’t get crabby and bang pots. They don’t answer back, argue or act miffed. They don’t repeatedly commit a housekeeping crime you ask them repeatedly not to commit. I pine for an ayi like this, I really do.

  I also pine for an ayi who has true affection for my kids. Not a clingy, heart-breaking obsession (and its associated problems), but a simple affection would be nice. Alas, it’s just not there. She sometimes feigns it, but it’s not really there, and I guess it’s something I’ll just have to live with, along with the myriad other things I have to in this town.

  Now, excuse me, I’m off to do some more coveting.

  Muxiyuan

  The elusive fabric market

  No doubt most of us have sought a particular Shangri-La in our lifetime. That elusive, otherworldly place we dream of, perhaps hear about, and hope to seek and find. In Beijing, Muxiyuan fabric market has been that place for me (pronounced ‘moo-shrr-yoo-ar’).

  Sure, I had heard about it. I had heard about the endless lanes and infinite rows of fabric: cotton, nylon, rayon, jersey, organza, chiffons, Lycra, tulle, silks in every imaginable variety, even leather and fur—faux and jian de (real). I had heard of the mountains of sequins, the reams of zips, the sheaths of trim from pompom baubles to flapper fringing, the buckles, the thread, the embellishments. I had heard much of this dressmaker Nirvana, with a price tag to make even the most bargain-savvy wholesale tailor weep buttons.

  I heard so many delicious tales of this joyous place, but I also heard an equal amount of horror stories—rumours of wannabe seamstresses who sought Muxiyuan but never returned to tell the tale, and instead disappeared into a rayon twilight zone.

  Most people take a minimum of three attempts to find Muxiyuan. Being unable to find things is a pretty typical phenomenon in Beijing, however, Muxiyuan is renowned for it—a confusing dichotomy because once you know where it is, it’s actually very easy to find (this statement sounds obvious, but that’s how bizarre this whole thing is).

  Nonetheless, I was determined to make it there First Go. I gathered together an army of like-minded fabric addicts and organised a car. Just to cover myself, I asked Ayi if she happened to know of this elusive place, stacked high with fabric slabs. She did. Hallelujah! I enlisted her service
s, too. We told the driver our general direction, and off we went.

  When we arrived at Muxiyuan da sha (big building) under direction from Ayi, our excitement was palpable. It wasn’t, however, until we hauled our carcasses around stall after stall of parkas, fairy dresses and wigs—with nary a swatch of dressmaking fabric in sight—that things slowly began to dawn on me. Oh yes, it became perfectly clear that Ayi had absolutely no bloody clue where the fabric market was, and had instead made the executive decision that fabric wasn’t what we were after. Apparently, a bunch of cheap junk at the Muxiyuan da sha would make us way more happy.

  Had we been looking for a bunch of junk, we would have been ecstatic. As it stood, I was furious. So furious, I would have wrapped Ayi in a bolt of silk and rolled her down a very steep hill—if I could only have found some damn silk.

  We went home, defeated.

  The second attempt to find Muxiyuan was with two friends. We took a taxi and we walked the streets for two hours, pretty much in circles and mainly because of the Chinese tendency to tell you any old direction rather than admit they don’t know where something is. Oh Lord! If only they would say ‘I don’t know’! During this lengthy trek, we eventually found lurex curtaining and tulle to make tutus. So close, but yet so far. We went home, defeated.

  The third time was a charm but we only found it so quickly because we took a friend who had already been to Material Mecca. It ended up being about 50 metres from our attempt number two. You can imagine the frustration, but no matter, we had a wonderland of fabric to navigate, and it was truly a pinnacle Beijing experience.

  I’ve made fluffy kangaroo suits and cheetah catsuits for Ella from fabric at Muxiyuan. Silk ball gowns, cotton kaftans, Chanel copycat suits, chiffon blouses, tweed skirts, pea coats and patterned shirt dresses from fabric at Muxiyuan, plus faux fur rugs and more cushions than pillow heaven. Well, my tailor Xiao Fei made them; I just showed her the pictures.