Broken China...

As I start this blog entry, I find myself sitting in the rather impressive Shenzhen Bao'an airport terminal 3, a wonderfully modern, state-of-the-art construction, designed by the somewhat unfortunately named Massimiliano Fuksas. It is the kind of architecture that modern China has fallen in love with, or at least those responsible for the pubic purse. One finds examples of these structures everywhere in modern China these days. The railway stations in the medium to large cities for example, often so dully normal in many countries, are on a scale that is scarcely believable in the PRC. Like modern cathedrals, the interiors bedecked with shining white marble, one cannot help but wonder at the cost of such constructions.

Arriving in Hangzhou last year, I recall wanting to buy an onward ticket and being directed to the ticket office at the other end of the inner concourse. The walk, through a vast echoing hall of gleaming stone, the subject of more or less continuous care from a vast army of cleaners, took a full ten minutes. It feels more like catching a plane than taking the train when using such places, the stations more akin to airport terminals than anything we would normally think of as a railway station. Many of the processes are the same. One's luggage is run through scanning machines in much the same manner, passports or I.D. papers have to be shown, and one is not allowed onto the platform itself until the train number has been announced when one proceeds to the appropriate departure gate.

It is all very impressive, the contrast all the greater though after starting the journey from the back alleys of Chang An where rubbish was piled high and left for days, stinking and rotting, the home to an army of cockroaches and rats. Personally, I was somewhat averse to the sight and the smell, but one would regularly see elderly people, their trailered bikes piled high with all sorts of flotsam and jetsam, scrabbling through the mounds of detritus looking for anything of any value whatsoever. This even went as far tearing open packets of discarded foodstuffs, trying to retrieve the small amounts of content that remained after being thrown away, often just a few grams of powder.

One of the justification that the Chinese government trots out, when asked to justify their truly awful CO2 emissions to climate change conferences, is that China is 'a developing country' and hence should be allowed more leeway than the 'developed' countries of the West. China alone is actually responsible for a quarter of the entire planets emissions and yet they manage, year in and year out, to avoid any restrictions whatsoever on their polluting activities by trotting out this excuse.

China is not an under-developed country in any sense that the phrase was originally meant to convey. The infrastructure would, for the most part, be the envy of most countries around the World. Development goes on at a pace that is truly stunning. New projects are constantly being commissioned by local and national government on a truly herculean scale. Money seems to be everlastingly available for such schemes. They seem to represent an expression of national or local pride, a kind of civic vanity for many local authorities to make the very best possible impression on visitors to their cities. Town halls in China in particular, can be seen as very clear examples of this civic vanity. They are often vast megalithic constructions, or examples of the very latest in architectural trends, that cost untold millions. 

No, China is not an undeveloped nation in the normal sense. On many levels it is vastly rich with sums of money owed to it that are truly staggering (the US debt alone is far more than most economies are worth). What they do have is a wealth distribution problem. The contrast between the wealthy, often an odd admixture of people in China between entrepreneurs, business owners and civic officials with sufficiently influential positions to make their patronage worthwhile, and the poor is often extreme.

It is indeed quite strange to reflect that for a so-called 'communist' country their wealth distribution is actually somewhat worse than either the UK or the US. Indeed, it is odd to think that in the former of those two countries, theoretically a capitalist Western country, there is far more state sponsored help for individuals (hospitals, pensions, welfare, education, etc.) than in the, theoretically at least, communist country of China. The money is there in the latter case but... they would rather spend it on endless vanity projects and suchlike than use it to assist alleviating the load on the poor or providing facilities to the population.

There is a strange factor at work here, or at least strange to someone such as myself coming form a Western perspective. There is a really quite bewildering callousness at times built into the culture. It is not that it is a mean culture or anything of that ilk, in many ways and in many situations, it is actually quite generous. Once one is accepted within a given group then the generosity becomes almost embarrassing at times. On several occasions during this trip, I almost had to fight in order to pay a restaurant bill. People who had treated you previously already would scarcely allow you to reciprocate, assuring you that as their guest they would be happy to pay. It can almost reach comic proportions at times, with several male members of a given group theatrically almost coming to blows for the right to pay the bill.

The downside of this, and where the callousness comes in, is that the generosity tends to extend only to those within the group. Outsiders, be they outside the family, outside the business, outside the locality, anyone who is not considered part of a given group, do not enter into the calculation whatsoever. Often, they are not even extended the most basic of civilities or consideration. There is an oft-used expression in the West: charity begins at home. For many Chinese, this is a fundamental assertion.

The philosopher Confucius gifted the Chinese people with the notion, indeed the fundamental importance, of the beneficial nature of social harmony and relationsips. In day to day practice, this has evolved into the concept of 'guanxi'. Guanxi is expressed in China through interwoven networks of relationships. Here it is the classic case of not what you know but who you know that really matters. The individual is considered to be of little importance within this system. What matters are the networks of relationships that he is part of.

All can be decided by guanxi: education, job, social circle, social status. Those in authority frequently owe their position not to any particular skill or abilities but simply to the relationships they have build up, familial or otherwise, that will allow them access to such roles. If you have few connections, or those connections are not sufficiently powerful or influential, your career choices are likely to be extremely limited within this society.

As ever with these things, one's view of such practices depend how one frames them in one's mind. You could say that it is, of course, necessary to build networks, and relationships are important in almost any situation in life. On the other hand, one could look at guanxi as more or less an inbuilt culture of massive corruption that effects almost everything that occurs in China today. It is all-pervasive and everywhere in the culture, so omnipresent that it is scarcely even realised by those within the system. It simply is the way that lives are lived here.

Within this context, anti-corruption drives, such as the currently professed policy of Xi Jinping's government, are unlikely to meet with any sustained success in the long term. In practice, the hidden purpose of such policies in China has often been to 'purge' political opponents; a way of asserting the leader's grip on the party apparatus. This may or may not be the case with the current example; for the moment, it is too early to say. If it is a genuine attempt to root out corruption then it is a massive task indeed. One can only wish them well in such a venture.

Back in the departure lounge, my flight has just been called. Within a few minutes I should be leaving China and heading South to the sunnier climes of Thailand. In many ways I will miss the place. Each occasion I come here I enjoy it but, at one and the same time, I also find it maddeningly frustrating. One cannot help but be elated by the sheer magnificence of buildings such as this terminal, it is architecture on the grand scale. On the other hand, one cannot but help but be depressed by the sheer abject nature of the poverty one sees here. Magnificent and abject, generous and callous, so much opulence and yet so much squalor; the China of today is a land of great contrasts.

Some people love it, others loathe it. After another two months here, I am still not sure which of these groups I owe my allegiance to...

A Dangerous Exercise ...

Today my flaneurial duties find me gently lapping at a bowl of 'dou nai', which roughly translates to, warm soya milk (with a little added sugar). It is a great favourite in these parts and is often given away free with meals. In this particular café, they charge the exorbitant sum of 1 Yuan (10p or 16 cents) if you take some with your morning meal. I hesitate to say breakfast as it is already 10.30 in the morning;  another late night due to the demands of my friend's addiction to tai chi, demands which sometimes mean that I get dragged into taking exercises of various sorts very late in the evening.      

          My friend is a great devotee of Tai Chi itself whereas I only tend to indulge in some of the more esoteric offshoots such as 'Qigong' (energy work) and 'Pai Da' , a form of exercise therapy that involves slapping various strategic points on the body. The latter I find particularly enjoyable although it does tend to border on the masochistic at times. In the version we practice, one slaps five different locations; the inside of the elbows, the armpits, the groin (carefully!), the backs of the knees and the insteps of the feet. When I say slap, I don't mean a gentle tap but a full-blooded, vigourous slap, the effect of which feels as if the skin is being stung, hard and continuously. This is repeated a large number of times until the blood raises to the surface and the area thus treated has turned quite red. At least, that is the hoped for result. Other colours, in theory at least, indicate an imbalance in the body's energy that will necessitate drawing out with yet more slapping. The exact imbalance is indicated by the precise colour that comes to the surface of the skin.

          Many of these practices, like Tai Chi itself, go back centuries and are deeply rooted in the Chinese psyche. One sees them everywhere in the squares and parks of Chinese cities, sometimes even 'en masse' as hundreds of people will be practising a given sequence together. There are numerous sequences advocated by the various different schools of Tai Chi, passed down partly through the written word but mostly from Shifu (master) to pupil. Some pupils then go on to becomes Shifus themselves and so it goes on down through the years. Some masters even claim direct lines of descent, Shifu to pupil, going back to the origins of Tai Chi itself.

          There was a brief stage though, a decade or so in length, when this sequence was very nearly broken and Tai Chi itself nearly became merely an historical artefact rather than the living, growing cultural phenomenon that it is today. This period was known as the 'Cultural Revolution' and lasted from the mid sixties to the early seventies. Tai Chi was deemed by the advocates of the Cultural Revolution to be reactionary and hence unworthy of being followed by the Chinese populace. Practitioners were persecuted, some even ended up in prison where not a few were unable to survive the extremely harsh conditions imposed by the Chinese penal system of the time.

          The Shifu of the person who teaches my friend is now a venerable old man in his mid eighties, though it is difficult to tell from his upright posture and the smooth and beautifully co-ordinated movements he makes when he goes through a sequence. He lives in a large city in Sichuan province which today is enjoying the benefits of a booming economy and a good standard of living. It was not always thus though. Back in the sixties it was caught up in the storm that was the Cultural Revolution and he himself came very close to being imprisoned for his 'counter-revolutionary' activities.

          He had to promise to not only stop only teaching Tai Chi but to give up personally practising it himself. He found the latter promise impossible to keep though. At this stage of his life he had already been practising for many years and he was aware of the enormous benefits that such continuous practise had bought him. He chose to continue but to be very quiet about it. Sometimes he would practise in the dead of night at home when he thought all his neighbours must be asleep. Sometimes he slunk off in the middle of the night and practised in the local forest or in the cemetery. On one of these sojourns to the graveyard he even came across the man who had been his Shifu beforehand, the tow men practising an exercise known as 'push hands' together.

          The Cultural Revolution was, in one sense, an event unique to China but in another just a repetition of a sequence that has gone on for centuries. The leaders of revolutions, and generally those who seize power through violence, seem to suffer an enormous fear, a paranoia if you will, that that power so taken will be taken away from them, and maybe in a similarly violent way to which they had acquired it in the first place. In reaction to this there is often an attempt to almost start history anew, as if they could re-invent the whole of society in exactly the way they wish it to be, usually with themselves held up as the supreme leader. Even calenders may be reset to year zero (as was the case with French Revolution and with the Khmer Rouge). Perhaps this could be thought of as the ultimate in control-freakery.

          The French Revolution could be thought of as one example, although in that particular case the violent and irrational forces unleashed by the revolutionaries rebounded on themselves (Robespiere being one of many who suffered this particular fate).  Pol Pot's Cambodia would be another, perhaps even more extreme case. Mao's China a third, although the cultural revolution came some years after the original revolution when Mao could see that his grip on power was waning following the disaster of his economic policy known, somewhat ironically it would seem now, as 'The Great Leap Forward' (perhaps more aptly termed 'The Great Fall Backwards!'). Mao is often called 'The Great Helmsman' in China and that would be true, if you think that a great helmsman is someone who steers his ship onto the rocks! He is often treated almost like a deity, the disaster of his policies ignored in a strangely enduring cult of personality. The man actually responsible for much of the economic and social progress in China today, Deng Xiaoping, is barely ever mentioned.

          Indeed, it was Deng Xiaoping who as leader deemed that there was, after all, nothing wrong with Tai Chi. After years of being fearful to practise their art, people started to emerge into the light once again and Tai Chi once more resumed the cultural role that it had played in China over many hundreds of years. Unfortunately, it was too late for some. The Shifu of the man who practised in the cemetery was apprehended one day soon after and, after a perfunctory trial, sent to a labour camp. He never returned. Now his pupil is a great Shifu in his own right and held in great respect across China. How times change...

          My friend is not only a great devotee of these arts but is, in truth, a very skilful practitioner too. I, for my part, am a mere dilettante as far as these things go. I must admit though, despite its sometimes painfully masochistic quality, there is something very energising about Pai Da. Fifteen minutes of such exercises leaves one literally buzzing with energy in a way that conventional exercise never does. One may be feeling a little tired or jaded at the start but by the time the short session is finished you feel like you could take on the planet! I am not sure that I buy into ideas of Chi as a universal energy source but... I have to admit the affects of the practices. They are very direct and very difficult to ignore. Also, when one sees men in their mid eighties prancing around like teenagers it does tend to give one pause for thought. I am not sure how or why it works, but it is clear that something very significant is triggered by these strange but somehow very effective forms of exercise.

          Back in the café I finish off my second bowl of dou nai by picking it up and sipping directly from the bowl. The longer I am in China the more I seem to be picking up the local habits. It may be a good idea to be a little conscious of this if and when I eventually return to the West, slurping from bowls is generally not 'de rigeur' in those parts. I am also sorely tempted to have another portion of chang fen, a very pleasant and very filling dish that is not dissimilar to lasagne, but without the cheese. At the princely sum of 3.5 Yuan (35p or 50 cents) it is hard to resist but I growing increasingly aware of my ever increasing waistline – it has been doing so steadily  since I arrived in China, despite the amount of exercise I have done. Better to resist for now methinks and leave it for another day.

          The sun is out, it is around 20C and I sit here in shirt sleeves watching the world go by enjoying the last of my drink and another completed blog. Life could be a lot worse...

          

Text mad...

          Today my flaneurial duties have drawn me to the luxurious and highly impressive surrounds of a brand new Mall of four floors standing on the edge of the main junction into Chang An. It seems very salubrious and swanky, decorated tastefully with hanging sculptures dangling from the type of roof one that would have made Frank Lloyd Wright proud. Indeed, the whole design of the mall reminds one of the Guggenheim Museum in New York. No doubt this particular architect owes much of his inspiration to the genius of Mr Wright. So close are the features to Wright's design that one could be excused for imagining that the designer in question simply copied the ideas...perish the thought!

          Circumstances dictate a limited choice of watering holes in this monument to commerce, so I find myself taking an Americano and a glass of water in a franchise of a particularly global, tax-dodging American enterprise. Oddly, when I asked for 'yi bai shui' (a cup of water) the waitress proceeded, as per normal, to put ice cubes in the cup, followed, as is usual here, with hot water (the Chinese rarely drink their water cold). Very strange....

          Fortunately, this particular shopping mall seems to be equipped with a very efficient air cleaning system as normally, on this particular junction, one does well if one can refrain from coughing for more than three minutes. I have had the misfortune of having had to wait for buses on several occasions at this particular environmental black-spot. It could not be defined as a pleasant experience.

          Getting to the bus stop in the first place is a life threatening experience in itself involving, as it does, the crossing of eight lanes of traffic. The traffic is 'controlled', and I use the word in the loosest possible sense, by traffic lights. For many drivers the prohibition of the red light seems to be merely optional, for taxi drivers it is like a red rag to a bull. They are more likely to accelerate than slow down in response to such a provocation. Added to this, it would seem that no law at all applies to the bicyclists (many electric powered these days, silent assassins ...) and motorised rickshaw wallahs who quite happily proceed in the opposite direction to the main stream of traffic – quite comical at times... if it wasn't quite so terrifying. This trepidatious pedestrian feels himself in mortal peril each and every time he has the misfortune to have to cross that particular road.

          Inside the café, I sit and chat with a friend whilst observing a group of five youngsters, probably around 15 years of age, sitting around a table together. None of them though is actually talking to another but all are absorbed in the process of texting on their smart phones. This is a very common sight in China and, to be fair, almost everywhere else one goes in the World these days where these devices are readily available and affordable. By the look of things, these youngsters seem to be involved in earnest text conversations with friends not currently present. I often wonder in such circumstances if, when they finally meet up with the friend they are texting, they will then spend that time texting the friends they are currently with!?

          Apparently a whole new form of etiquette has formed around the question of the answering of text messages,  American youngsters in particular being prone to its demands. It seems to receive one and not to respond is considered the height of rudeness. The fear of being accused of such a social faux pas has lead youngsters to going to bed with their phones next to the pillows, ever ready to answer such profound enquiries as 'Are you  still awake?'

          Once more, it seems that the thing we think we own somehow ends up owning us...

          It is a decidedly odd paradox in modern life that seems to occur with alarming regularity: devices described as 'labour saving' or 'time saving' commonly have the opposite effect. Mobile phones were touted as saving us time and the need to be near a static phone – the reality has been that there is now nowhere to escape to if you have such a device (I often leave mine turned off ...).
 The wealthiest societies around the world are equipped with many such 'time saving' devices and yet the more they own the less time people actually seem to have. The opposite is also true, if you look at the 'poorer' societies in the World, the lack of such devices as phones, cars, computers, washing up machines, etc., etc., actually seems to magically leave them with more time. A very curious state of affairs.

          This paradox also applies to town and country. The places where most time saving devices are concentrated, i.e. cities, are at one and the same time the most frenetic and often least pleasant places, where people seem to be in a headlong rush to get ... where exactly?

          I take another sip of coffee and observe one of the youngsters now staring at the screen of his device whilst swishing his thumbs back and forth across the surface as it makes little beeps and whistles. He is strangely absorbed and yet at the same time agitated, gradually getting more and more animated in his reactions, his lips curling into agonised grimaces, limbs occasionally jerking to one side or the other in an attempt to control some process or another. One feels like telling him, if my Mandarin were good enough (which it is not) that he is looking at flashing lights on a tiny screen which is making rather silly little noises ... it really doesn't matter that much. I would guess the reaction would not be a pleasant one!

Wiser to keep my counsel methinks...

          This coffee shop is quietly efficient but could be located anywhere on the planet. Indeed, much the same could be said of the shopping centre itself. A mall, is a mall, is a mall – this one a particularly fine example of the flattening effect of the globalisation. It is clean, anonymous and ... completely without character, other than at the most banal and superficial level.  The idea of 'Globalisation' itself has become one of the sacred cows, much like such erroneous and socially damaging ideas as subjecting every aspect of life to 'market forces'. Its effects have created a world wherein, once one finds oneself in such a mall, one could be anywhere on the planet.

          As someone who considers himself something of a nomad, I tend to treasure the differences between places, peoples and cultures. In this way, it is sad to see the world getting smaller and smaller and less and less diverse. The whole planet appears to be settling into a globalised culture that is increasingly fast but equally, increasingly shallow and terribly anonymising. People reduced to being mere consumers, forever rushing around, whipped into a frenzy by manipulative and ruthless advertising, fearful that they will lose out on the latest 'bargain'. There seems (fortunately, only seems ... ) to be but one game in town, and much like the computer game that is obsessing my fellow customer, it is a pretty superficial and banal game at best.

          My young fellow customer has finally finished swishing away at his screen and now has returned to his texting duties. I have been writing for quite some time now but scarcely have any words have passed between the group of youngsters sitting at the nearby table.

          Ah, the joys of the dizzy social world of modern youth...