After spending some time with these wonderful children and staff, we then visited another branch of the orphanage, with younger children of lesser disability. Amazingly, many of them were simply cleft palate kids, post-surgery. Some had other physical afflictions—like the breathtaking six-month-old baby girl, born with one arm. Ironically, she was perfection. When one of our tai tai (who has a same-aged baby girl at home) saw this child, it took every ounce of strength to hold her up.
But sweet little baby girl aside, I have to tell you about one wee boy who ran up to me when we arrived. He ran up to me, just me. His name was Alan and he was about three years old, post-cleft palate surgery. When he ran towards me, I grabbed that child and I swung him high into the air and he squealed with delight, then proceeded to trail me the whole time we were there. Every time I turned around, his adorable face was there, staring at me, melting me.
I fell in love with that child on sight and if my legs could have run fast enough, I would have lifted that young boy into my arms and I would have opened the door and I would have run like the wind. I would have taken him and I would have run and I would have snuck him into our family forever.
I will never, ever forget him.
I will not forget his sweet face, I will not forget his black eyes. I will not forget the joy and expectation in his face. To hell with the fact that I am not physically with him and will never be physically with him. To me, he is mine. I didn’t tell my husband about him. It doesn’t matter—it’s just Alan and me.
Later, we did raise funds for the orphanage but the funds we raised pale in comparison to the effect this visit had on our lives as tai tai. One day, Alan will be adopted by a loving family and he will never want for love and he will never even remember we met. His heart is not the one that will ache for the rest of his days.
That aching heart will be mine.
Sick
Beijing’s physical challenges
Almost without exception, people who arrive in Beijing get sick within the first six months, often repeatedly. Strange and persistent microbes swarm around in the air here, screwing with your body’s ecosystem. Diarrhoea, nausea and headaches are common, as are colds, sore throats and feeling just, well, un well. This is due to many things including the different food, the high salt and fat content in most dishes, the iffy water, and the filth and airborne viruses that coat the streets and float between people who live in such close proximity. This is why hand-washing is so important and why we have thus developed a catchcry upon entering our home: ‘Shoes off, hands washed!’
Another phenomenon is the respiratory ailments. If you’re a pollution-triggered asthmatic, it will be a nightmare for you here. And even if you’re not asthmatic, you may experience a tightness in the chest or regular dizziness due to the lack of oxygen in the air. Basically, it’s mild suffocation. Delightful.
In winter, the air in Beijing becomes bone dry and brittle—so much so, the house zings with static electricity. Xiansheng and I have actually produced bright blue (and painful!) sparks between our pecking lips on many occasions, and have taken to slapping each other’s face gently to earth ourselves before a peck (sometimes not so gently).
I’ll never forget the day Ella rolled around on our micro-suede couch and when she stood up, her lengthy hair stuck out from her scalp like Thing One from Dr Seuss’s The Cat in the Hat. It stood a foot from her head, without a word of a lie, and I have the photos to prove it. I told her she better not touch me lest she zap me to Kingdom Come, and so she proceeded to chase me around the house, squealing. Trust me, I ran.
In this chronically dry air, we use humidifiers and we also use moisturiser galore. Darling Ella has English Rose skin, so we need special cream for her. Her hands become covered in blood-angry patches if she doesn’t moisturise ceaselessly. We also drink lots and lots of water (and run to the loo more than we care to).
Small ailments in Beijing can be fiddly to deal with but serious illness is also common, especially among expats whose immune systems are not primed for the China super-bug challenge. I know of many an expat child who has been poised for airlift to Bangkok or Hong Kong, and I can’t even imagine the terror experienced by their parents.
Our family has so far escaped more serious sickness in Beijing; that is until I was struck down last week with a mystery virus, just as my mother-in-law (MIL) arrived for her second visit and Ayi took a week off for Chinese New Year.
The luck of it.
It started pretty innocently. I just didn’t feel quite ‘right’. Then there was a constant low-grade fever and although there were no serious outward symptoms, I just felt off. Then MIL arrived and Ayi absconded for her week off, and that very same day I went to the doctor to see what was the matter. I wasn’t at all horrendously sick but after explaining my symptoms, the doctor calmly stood up and said he wanted to admit me.
This was totally surprising and really, really annoying. There’s no way I wanted to lie in a hospital bed, but he made me. I had a blood test, chest X-ray and ultrasound, and when the blood results came back it was revealed I had a mass infection, only they couldn’t work out where it was. Interesting.
Within hours, I was terribly ill. I had intravenous antibiotics for three days solid and my infection numbers became so high the doctor warned me I would be airlifted to Hong Kong if the numbers didn’t drop at the next blood reading. This is when I actually got quite scared, so thank God the numbers dropped the next day—barely and insignificantly, but at least they dropped and I was allowed to stay in Beijing.
By Day Four, the numbers improved rapidly yet I spent the day throwing up from all the antibiotics. I remember saying to Xiansheng, ‘Kill me now.’ He instead insisted I take a nap, and when I woke up my disabling nausea was completely gone and I got up and went home.
Such is life in China.
In the meantime, poor MIL spent the week cooking, cleaning and kid-minding. What a holiday, poor thing. Riley’s birthday, Chinese New Year and my birthday came and went, and I remember sitting at the table, weak as a kitten, attempting to blow out a belated handful of candles on a cake—and giving thanks I had actually made it to another birthday.
Temple Blessings
Anyone can send wishes to heaven
Our family has visited many a Chinese temple. From the faux Potala Palace in Chengde to the Jade Buddha Temple in Shanghai, from the stunning Soul’s Retreat in Hangzhou to the famed Lama Temple in Beijing, we’ve seen many, many a temple. Some have egg-yellow walls, some faded red, some have round gateways, some have ethnic minority influence, some have prayer flags, some have prayer wheels, some even have rooms representing the departments of heaven, complete with life-size replicas of people having their tongues cut out.
But what all of them have in common is incense, or joss sticks, upon which you can send your prayers and wishes to heaven.
How I’ve longed to send my prayers and wishes to heaven.
I remember the first time I headed straight to the joss-stick seller at a temple and Xiansheng pulled me aside and suggested it might offend the more pious Chinese worshippers if a big blonde Western woman stuck a few sticks into the urn and sent clouds of billowing smoke just to say hi to her mum.
Since then, I’ve never dared do it. I wouldn’t want to offend. It’s true, I wouldn’t really be praying to the Gods; I would just be sending a cheerio to Mum and to my father-in-law and to others who have left us far too soon.
To be fair, I have been known to pray. Not to a religiously predetermined bearded man in the sky but to a force I feel watching over us. Just because I can’t give it a name doesn’t mean it isn’t real and I don’t have faith in it.
So, when MIL and I wandered the stunning, wintry-cold grounds of the Dongyue Temple in eastern Beijing recently, I didn’t even mention the big fat joss sticks for sale at the antiquated little shop at the entrance. The temple was quiet and only a few smoky sticks burned in the courtyard’s central urn. Nonetheless, we were attracted straight to them.
We had been staring at them a long time, inhaling the fragrant white curls, when I turned to MIL and said, ‘I want to light some joss sticks.’
‘So do I,’ she said.
‘Then let’s do it,’ I said. And, without further ado, I looked to the left, looked to the right, and dashed into that little shop where I bought two great whopping bunches of sticks, wrapped in white paper with red Chinese characters on the front. Then I handed MIL a pack and we walked towards the urn and we unwrapped the end of the pack and we held it firmly against the flame.
The bitterly cold air made lighting a task but eventually our sticks began to smoulder and we pushed them into the sand then stood back to bask in the scent. I looked to the left, to the right. A few people wandering around. No one rushing over to question us. No one rolling their eyes in dismay at the two light-haired Western women performing this sacrilegious act. All was calm.
MIL and I linked arms as the joss sticks burned quietly, then suddenly they began billowing cleansing white smoke all around us. And as we watched, we sent our prayers to heaven, via the Gods of All Sorts and into the souls of our loved ones gone.
We cried, we smiled, we paused and we laughed at the simplicity and beauty of it all. After all, who cares what travels on billowing white clouds to heaven? So long as it’s love.
Train Shenanigans
Our first clackety overnighter
I remember having the opportunity to chat with the Australian Ambassador to China (another Princess Diana moment) about two weeks after we arrived in Beijing, and one of the first things I asked him was a China travel recommendation. A highly seasoned Sinophile, the Ambassador said, without hesitation, ‘Pingyao.’
It’s only taken us three years to go, but we finally went, last weekend. And we loved it.
We took an overnight train to this ancient financial capital, and it may have been exhausting but it was also some of the most fun we’ve ever had as a family. We boarded the train at around 5p.m. and settled quickly into our four-berth room with a sliding door and narrow bunk beds with lace-trimmed bedding. The room was clean enough, with a carpeted floor, a mini air-conditioner and a teensy flip-out table beneath the large picture window.
The kids clambered up to the top bunks and proceeded to giggle for hours on end, climbing up and down and scooting around the train like monkeys. Then, of course, they needed to go to the toilet because toilets are like unexplored and fascinating territory for a child, no matter where you are on the planet—even on a rattling, skanky old train.
After an hour or two of challenging toilet trips, we germ-stripped our hands with germ-stripping gel and unearthed our picnic dinner. Xiansheng and the kids began nibbling on sandwiches while I searched fruitlessly for the bottle opener I’d packed for the bottle of Chardonnay clutched in my fist. With dawning horror, as the train clambered its way across the very lengthy Chinese landscape, I knew it would be a long and sorry night if I couldn’t numb myself with a much-needed Chardy or two.
Ten minutes later and in total Chardy desperation, I begged Xiansheng to go into the dining car and ask for a bottle opener. My husband looked at me pointedly and then burst out laughing. Frustrated, I initiated a round of bets that the dining car would indeed come up with the goods. Xiansheng argued with me for an appropriately frustrating period of time before reluctantly heading there to check.
When he came back, I held out my hand and he reached out and placed nothing in the centre of my palm. Then he slapped my palm and said: ‘Told you!’ He then proceeded to tell me that when he got to the dining car, he found a booze opener all right. The stench of it hit him like an oncoming freight train. There, draped across the very first table of the car, were not only two totally plastered chefs in their grimy chef’s hats, but also the train’s uniformed policeman, paralytically drunk and clutching a very empty bottle of bai jiu in one fist, with a finger from the other fist jammed up his nose to the first knuckle.
The first thing Xiansheng did was take a photo to prove it, then he turned on his heel and left, but halfway back to our cabin, he second-thought his return (knowing I would just turn him around and send him back again) and went back to the drunken dining car. When he politely gathered the attention of the drunks and asked them for a wine bottle opener, they first said, ‘Shenme?’ What? Then they said ‘Shenme?’ seven more times before finally realising what Xiansheng wanted, and bursting into raucous laughter.
I heard the laughter from our cabin.
When Xiansheng returned, I took one look at him and the invisible bottle opener on my palm and I said: ‘Get your car keys.’
Fifteen minutes later, and sweating like a roasted pig, Xiansheng had almost managed to push the cork all the way in with his ignition key. Ella, on the top bunk, flipped herself upside down and regarded his attempts with interest before saying, ‘Daddy, why are you trying to start the wine with your car keys?’ Obviously thinking that ‘Because mummy is a shameless drunk’ was not the right answer, Xiansheng instead grunted and glared at me. Ha! He didn’t complain once that sweet grapey drop seared his tongue.
Ah, this was the life. A careening clickety-clack train, skinny, rockhard bunks with scratchy lace sheets, two heavily dozing children and a sleepless husband and wife watching China speed past into the night, sipping warm Chardy and spitting out cork crumbs onto the carpet.
A fine introduction to Pingyao, which incidentally, you must put on your travel list immediately. My friend the Ambassador was right. And make sure you take the train there ... and don’t forget the bottle opener. It may not be the Princess Diana way to travel, but it sure is a hoot.
You Got to Have Friends
Or not
Like many expat women in Beijing, I’ve become a veteran in the art of saying goodbye, of letting friendships go. Gradually, you get over the need for expat friends. Sometimes it’s because you find other things that are more important but usually it’s because you’ve become a twisted pile of bitter due to the falling-in-like and subsequent loss scenario. What happens is: you fall in like with several wonderful, incredible people and then they up and leave you. Strand you. Go home.
How dare they!
Most of the expats I’ve met and lost in Beijing, I didn’t want to let go. Some, I was indifferent about and others I was whooping it up like a bling bling cowgirl on Rodeo Drive, more than happy to say adiós. Seriously, though, many, if not most friendships in Beijing run their course and would never survive outside this bizarro expat world. It’s nothing personal; it’s just that everyone is thrown together in a pot that doesn’t offer the choice and selectivity we enjoy at home.
And it doesn’t help that, over time, you miss your old friends and family back home more than ever before—like really terribly miss them, and realise how blessed you are to have them. Or maybe you’ve simply decided that if you have to do one more girlie lunch or shopping expedition, you’ll implode.
It could also be because you’ve reached the zenith of your posting and suddenly you find yourself on the downward slide—the homeward stretch. That’s when things shift into high gear: so much to think about, so much to plan, so much to do while still in Beijing, and friendships get compromised in the busyness swirl. During this countdown time, what’s the point of forging new friendships?
I’ve said goodbye to two dear Beijing friends recently. One of them a marvellous Aussie heading back to Perth, and the other an extraordinary Japanese housewife who is truly a jewel-box of treasure and quite possibly could have been a past-life twin of mine.
I’m really surprised how devastating these losses have been. Both these women have left large, very empty holes in my life in Beijing. Since their departure, it’s almost by external force that I’m compelled not to get involved with new people. This has been exacerbated by the recent arrival of my sister Jie Jie and her husband Smoothie, who are now living in the capital. Of course, I want to spend a lot of time with them, and my Beijing friends have consequently taken a seat even further bac
k on the priority train.
It’s kind of sad, in a way, but I really have no choice. My desire for emotional investment has not only switched off, but my serious desire to write has been switched on, and it’s taking up every spare social minute.
Some social acquaintances have taken my sudden inward shift well. Others have taken it personally (it’s really not personal), and some even stick their noses in the air when I walk by. It’s difficult but it’s also something I simply must do. Beijing is a magical place with magical things happening and I must plan our remaining time very carefully here. I must make sure our family enjoys the most of this extraordinary place, which (of course) we’ve taken for granted, and which is so rapidly coming to an end. Before we know it, we will be back home to our Normal life. A wonderful life, but nonetheless a Normal life.
And if glorious Beijing is anything, it’s not Normal.
Holidays in Paradise
Adding Sanya to the five-star list
Since coming to live in China, we’ve been in the fortunate position to be able to travel. To go on super-dooper holidays further afield than we ever imagined—much further than the outskirts of our local town or the nearest coastal beach or caravan park, which were the holidays of my childhood.
When I was a kid, we would pack up the car and go camping with tents that were scratchy on the ground—not a single luxe pillow-top mattress in sight. We’d shower in the local caravan park toilet block with plastic thongs on our feet—no bubbling spa bath overlooking a turquoise blue ocean, no no. We’d poop in the bush using fresh leaves for paper—no bidet or heated ceramic toilet seat for our little pink bottoms, thankyouverymuch.
Beijing Tai Tai Page 14
