China and Wealth

The world seems to be under the impression that China is a country soon to be overflowing with big spenders. In fact, it is in the Chinese tradition to save, not spend money. Unlike developed nations in the West, China has no experience with a Social Security system or a retirement safety net. So it has always made good common sense to save as much money as you possibly can. The new, wealthier China promises to change all that, but ditching a value system that has held fast for centuries will take a lot of time.


Too many Western businesspeople worship a well-worn set of statistics, that hundreds of thousands of millionaires live in China, and more are being created every week. The potential for making a killing in this market is huge. As a result, you see the phenomenon of one high-end specialty retailer after another setting up shop in Beijing: Gucci, Armani, Prada, Chanel, and more. But I can tell you that on any given day, from the moment each store opens until it closes, it is devoid of customers. Empty. The managers and workers stand around, creating and updating window displays, hoping for that day when one of those Chinese millionaires or family members shows up and drops hundreds of thousands of RMB on purchases. Then, they'll wait for another 7 months before the same millionaire -- or, good heavens, another one! -- will arrive and buy something else.


The high-priced, highly-sought-after stuff has led to a lucrative counterfeit business in China. Fake items ranging from handbags to footwear are extremely popular. A history of social division between elitists and peasants has created a middle class obsessed with status, and it will buy a fake Rolex or Gucci item in a heartbeat.


It might take 40 more years of wealth accumulation before average Chinese citizens can even think about walking into a high-end retail store to make a purchase. But once they start, who knows what will be left for the rest of us?

Kids Without Pants

Before I arrived in Beijing, my image of China was that of a modern skyline with tall buildings, flashy neon signs along the waterfront, civilians and soldiers saluting the flag during the ceremonies at dawn. But now, if you ask me about an enduring visual symbol of this Far East economic and cultural giant, I can only conjure up one thing: children who don't wear pants.

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Upon seeing this sight a few times, I was reminded of the classic print ad for Coppertone tanning lotion, you know, the one with the dog yanking down the kid's shorts to reveal the tan line? Except in China, the mutt has managed to tear the youngster's pants completely off, and no one...NO ONE...seems bothered by it one bit.

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In the U. S., the debate rages on about "who wears the pants in the family." In China, there is no question about who does not. It is always the child between 2 and 5 years of age, a toddler that clearly should be well on his-or-her way to pre-school development, who is seen in public sans shorts or trousers. Or, even worse, wearing pants with the crotch panel missing so the child's bare butt sticks out. Putting aside the chill factor, wouldn't you think a country seemingly obsessed with national humiliation could spare of the feelings of millions of its youngest citizens by making sure they are fully clothed?

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The answer, as usual, lies in the ancient recesses of Chinese culture. This one suggests that Chinese children are historically taught to eliminate bodily waste as soon as the urge strikes, and must not allow a few inches of fabric get in the way. Hence the sight of a mother holding a toddler over a public wastebasket along a busy city street, letting the child eject a solid stream of urine into the can. Or the scene of another child, squatting and dropping #2 while a woman, presumably mom again, stands at a distance looking the other way, as if she's letting her dog do its thing during its morning walk.

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The variety of places where I've witnessed parental-supervised kids whizzing and pooping in public is mind-boggling, at least to my Western-raised mind, anyway: busy sidewalks, city parks, bus stops, subway platforms, office plazas, bicycle parking lots, picnic tables, potted plants, bar-b-que pits, taxi stands, produce markets, train stations, and even on the airport tarmac.

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In fairness, many Chinese have told me that this behavior is slowly being learned out of the culture, and it is frowned upon by most urban residents. But I don't imagine it will change anytime soon. It's one of the surest signs of spring: all of the kids get to play outside, and half of the clothes will stay in the closet.

Take Beijing Subway

I love the Beijing Subway system. It is clean, simple, and efficient. The signage, although mostly in Chinese, is easily understandable for foreigners. If you've tried to get around in any big international city, you know that once you've seen one subway map, you've seen them all.

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The only bad thing, and this is the case with all public transportation in this part of the world, is that it is outrageously congested. Once rush hour strikes, the rule of order completely breaks down. The sole authority figures are a few cops and mostly little old ladies, shouting crass language through bullhorns and stuffing commuters into already overcrowded subway cars.

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One charming aspect of the cultural divide is how standing in line -- queing-up for our Continental readers -- is not a custom at the Beijing subway ticket booth. I've heard it said that when you live in a country with 1.3 billion other people, waiting for your turn is not an option. There might be a line of 20 people standing patiently ahead of you, but if you are sneaky enough to get around the edge of the counter and slide your cash through the hole in the window, and quick enough to grab the ticket meant for the guy in the front of the line, then you are a real man (or woman) indeed.

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Then there is the fun of getting on the train itself. One time, I found myself waiting along with a crowd of commuters as the subway rolled to a stop in front of us, and noticed something unusual when the doors opened. The passengers were not just stepping out of the car, they were running away from it, as if the carriage was on fire. Looking inside, I witnessed a full-on, screaming, kicking, fist-swinging fracas had broken out among people on the train. Not just between a couple of guys, but between two entire families. It appeared that one group, hauling a number of bags and suitcases, had pushed their way onto the crowded train at a previous stop, and the other group had taken offense. This was during the height of the Spring Festival travel season, during which a large percentage of Beijing's migrant population returns to the countryside for family reunions.

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Each subway stop lasts for only about 30 seconds, but it was more than enough time for the rapidly escalating, violent spectacle between these Chinese Hatfields and McCoys to spill off the train and onto the platform. Forget all those stories about a tranquil and harmonious society: members of one family forcibly shoved the others out of the subway car, and tossed their bags out with them. And then some of them left the train themselves to continue trading haymakers and uppercuts as the subway police ignored the scene altogether, opting instead to move waiting passengers into the carriage.

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A few family members from the group still on the train -- Jed, Jethro, Elly Mae and even Granny -- grabbed and dragged their kin back into the car, while their counterparts outside yelled insults and obscenities through the closing doors. Finally, members of each rural clan began punching the glass in a vain attempt to get in some more shots as the train pulled away.

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Then suddenly, silence, as if none of it had ever happened. One group of commuters on the platform was quietly replaced by another, as the next train was due within two minutes, and the rush hour circle of life continued. Maybe there is a sense of order here after all.

Friendship Hotel

About a month after I arrived in Beijing, my employer assigned me to live in an apartment in the Friendship Hotel compound, a complex of residential buildings surrounding a hotel in northwest Beijing. The Friendship Hotel -- a.k.a. "Youyi Binguan" -- is well-known and has a long and interesting history. Within ten years after the formation of the People's Republic, China and Russia had become wary rivals. This less-than-comradely relationship gave rise to a series of "friendship" gestures, with the Chinese looking to lessen the chance that Beijing would be blown to itty-bitty pieces in a nuclear confrontation with the Soviet Union. The Friendship Hotel, built especially to house Soviet engineers helping to build Beijing in the 1950s and 1960s, is the literal monument to those lofty hopes.


Living in the Friendship Hotel apartments is like taking a step back in time. It is easy...a little too easy...to imagine yourself as a homesick, hard-working, vodka-swilling Russian drone stuck in a big city in a strange country, where no one spoke your language, no stores stocked any familiar food, and no communication reached you from Moscow for weeks at a time. My apartment featured a stove and a fridge that were created in the era of the Philco television sets in the U. S. The walls were painted a depressing shade of Soviet-era grey, and the courtyard had all the charm of a Siberian gulag.


The hotel itself was magnificent, but the staffers were decidedly less than friendly. Once they discovered I was a foreigner who was living in an apartment in the compound -- not a hotel guest -- the reception turned as chilly as a Cold War launch code conference. When I arrived with my two 40-pound suitcases, I asked the concierge if I could check them at the desk while I inspected the apartment, which was on the 5th floor of the building next door.


"I'm sorry, we do not allow that," he replied, in barely-accented English.

"Yeah," I said, "but if the apartment isn't in good condition, I'll need to ask for another one, and it wouldn't make sense to take all the stuff up there just to bring it back down here."

"We cannot store suitcases at the desk," came the response.

"Can't I just leave the bags here for just a few minutes, while I check the apartment out?" I protested again, trying hard to be a good, patient foreign guest.

"Why?" said the concierge.

"BECAUSE THEY'RE FREAKIN' HEAVY, THAT'S WHY," I shot back.

There went the Nobel Peace Prize.


So, I toted both bags up the five flights of stairs (no elevators for the Soviet strongmen), and fortunately, the place was in decent shape, complete with a full-sized bed featuring a mattress as rock-solid as the Berlin Wall. Plus, there was a western restaurant, a TGIFriday's no less, right across the street. However, my angry act-out in the lobby earned me more than the typical mistrust of foreigners among the staff. I was ordered to the desk for a "routine" passport check on more than one occasion.


I witnessed my first Chinese New Year celebration during my residency at the Friendship Hotel. Beijing residents casually blasted their own fireworks displays from the sidewalks in and around the compound. At one point, a stray Roman Candle landed in some dry hedges at the gate and caused the landscaping to immediately burst into flame. The fire raged for more than 15 minutes before a crew showed up to put it out. The next morning, I walked past the charred brush which left a blemish on the hotel's otherwise immaculate front entrance. Now, I'm not saying I know just exactly how it happened. But I've got some ideas.

I Have A (Chinese) Name

In my never-ceasing attempts to learn Mandarin in my spare time, I decided to watch and listen to sports highlights on Chinese TV stations. All of the pictures were packaged and sequenced exactly the same as in the U. S. and other countries, and the presenter enthusiastically summarized the action on the screen. Except I noticed one thing. I didn't hear the presenter say any of the names of the athletes. It was all run-together-Mandarin as-usual to my untrained ear. And these were highlights from NBA basketball, the sport that the Chinese are supposedly crazy about. At no time did I hear the names of any the players on the screen: not Carmelo Anthony, not Paul Pierce, not Kevin Garnett, not Tim Duncan, not even celebrated superstar LeBron James.


I asked one of my co-workers about what I watched. "All of the sports stars are recognized only by their Chinese names," he said. "Everyone knows this."


Now I know that this should not have surprised me at all, but I was nonetheless shocked and amazed. In South Africa, no one makes up a different name for the Yankees' Derek Jeter. There's no made-up moniker for Shaquille O'Neal in Germany. Even the French call NFL quarterback Peyton Manning, "Peyton Manning." They don't call him "Le Mannion des Peyton" or something stupid like that. But the Chinese apparently find it way too tough to say anyone's name in anything but Mandarin. Unless it's Kobe Bryant, who is known simply as "Ko-bay", likely because his first name naturally fits into 2 familiar Chinese characters.


Still, it's hard for me to understand. I mean, we Americans didn't start calling Yao Ming anything different when he joined the NBA. The worst we did to fellow Chinese hoops hero Yi Jianlian was shorten his name to two letters -"Yi" - and stuck it to the back of his jersey.


The implications for talking to someone in China about sports or popular culture are huge. If I want to talk to a Chinese person about legendary painter Picasso, it's "who?" Singer Mariah Carey: "Eh?" Even one of their own, actor Jackie Chan, is known by an entirely different name. I need to point to his picture before people get it. "See, it's Jackie Chan! Jackie CHAN! JACK-IE CHANNN!"


Forget it. And don't fall into the bad habit of thinking that raising the volume or pitch of your voice helps; it doesn't.


Movie titles? Never mind. The title of the recent Will Smith movie "Hancock" is referred-to as something like "flying black superhero man with sunglasses." Simply calling it "Hancock" would be too easy.


"Enter The Dragon"? You know, Bruce Lee? ("BRUCE LEE?") Nope. But if I spoke about the most famous movie starring Li Xiaolong, then we're going somewhere.


I can't believe it.


I finally asked someone what my Chinese name would be, if I could choose it. To my surprise, I discovered I already have one. It's even written on my Foreign Experts Certificate, in Chinese characters, "An Dong Ni." That is apparently the closest anyone could get to saying my given name in Mandarin. I still don't know how to say it myself, nor which tones you're supposed to use. With my luck in China, it can probably be misinterpreted to mean "dung of a perverted sheep-owning peasant." When I hear raucous laughter the next time I introduce myself, then I'll know.

Diet Coke

Fast on the heels of my surprisingly-favorable review of McDonald's in China, I now deliver a defense of another sinister American import, Coca-Cola. I am a huge fan and big consumer of Diet Coke, and I am so happy I can drink it from one side of China to the other. Quaffing other cola products are like drinking liquid cinder blocks compared to Diet Coke, a.k.a. Coca-Cola Light, a.k.a. jian yi kele (literally, no-sugar Cola). So, for those knuckleheads who enjoy the full-calorie, full-sugar alternative, you can take your billions of cases of original Coke or Pepsi and resume building the Great Wall. The rest of us will enjoy our low-calorie carbonated fix.

Diet drink marketing in China has been slow, mostly due to some old-world thinking. It seems many people in undevevloped countries associate the English word "diet" with women who want to lose weight. Consuming a "diet" drink is still seen to be un-manly here. Hence, such drinks are labeled "light" drinks. I've seen Coca-Cola Light, Pepsi Light, even Dr. Pepper Light on the shelves in China. It is almost like the struggle to market light beer in the U. S. 30 years ago. It's interesting to note, too, that Coke Zero is a Chinese curiosity among sodas, while its market share is marginal in the U. S. and Europe.

So it's a mixed bag regarding low-calorie sodas in Beijing. It may be comforting for the culture snobs to know that a lot of Chinese do not consider Coca-Cola products to be healthy at all. Tea is, has been, and always will be the drink of choice in China. After all, many TV commercials air featuring fit, healthy young people singing songs and enjoying tea at the beach, so it must be good for you, right?

Beijing Police

I survived a recent brush with the law here in Beijing. I'd agreed to the 1 year deal to stay at my current job last December, but my employer failed to tell me I had to renew my work and residency papers. It turned out I was living in China and working illegally for 22 days. I had to pay an 800 U.S. dollar fine, AND I had to spend a day at a police station, which really concerned me. I expected detention, or forced labor, or waterboarding, at least.


POLICE OFFICER: Let me take a moment to explain the penalties. Once we find you guilty, we will sentence you to one day of hard labor.

ME: Wait a second! WHAT? What do you mean 'hard labor?'

OFFICER: You will be ordered to report to work, joining the farmers and other migrants who are building that Beijing skyscraper across the street. You will continue to lift bricks and mortar, weld metal, and balance on bamboo scaffolding until you either run out of phlegm-packed spit or fall to your death, whichever comes first.

ME: Don't you have something less taxing, like probation? You know, if you catch me breaking the law again, I get deported to the U. S., where I can join the first home construction project once the economy begins moving again?

OFFICER: We do not have this probation of which you speak. Everybody knows this.

ME: How about Double Secret Probation? Does anybody know about that?

OFFICER: You are lucky the farmers bought all of the plastic buckets or you would be severely waterboarded already.


My employer promised to send a Chinese legal expert to sit with me, but dispatched a cute office-worker girl to keep me company instead. This wasn't half bad; it made the threat of waterboarding seem a lot easier to handle.

It was a nervous, disturbing time, with no one bothering to translate for me what was going to happen next. I had to sign some papers that explained my guilt and my "attitude toward the offenses." It ended up being nothing worse than paying for parking tickets, and the company, to its credit, provided all the cash on the spot. I suppose I now have a criminal record in China, which should give me some serious street cred, and make me all the more irresistible to the cute Mainland babes who are already crushing on Obama.