From San Francisco to Shanghai, Chinese everywhere are obsessed with numbers. A quick read through my mini glossary here will not only equip you to prosper in life with the aid of auspicious numbers (if you believe the popular superstitions), it might also help you engage in some naughty business.
The digit with the biggest and bestest reputation is “8,” which in Cantonese is spoken as “baht,” a near homonym to “faht” (“prosper”). Chinese people routinely and happily pay up to decorate their car plates with as many eight’s as possible, to live at #8 on Eighth Avenue, and to secure a phone number with the triply potent “888” sequence.
A lesser known happy number is “6,” which in Mandarin indicates a smooth journey. Six is commonly paired with eight, like in the number string “168” (roughly translating to “a swift road to prosperity”). Wishing your Chinese friends “one hundred sixty-eight” will surely bring smiles to their faces.
Among the amorous young the number “9” is also significant. “Jiu” means both “nine” and “everlasting,” an unfortunate coincidence that hits hard at Chinese men’s wallets come Valentine’s Day when their ladies hope (or expect) to be gifted with a bouquet of nine hundred and ninety-nine roses. Imagine what would’ve become of the floral industry had the number “0” meant “long lasting” instead.
Numbers can carry a lot of good meaning in Chinese but there are also inauspicious ones. Chinese avoid the number “4” like the plague, for it sounds morbidly similar to “death.” Being a bad Chinese I don’t pay much attention to filter unlucky numbers out of my life. I still remember my mother’s mortification when I moved to New York and told her to call me at my new home line, 646-414-4450. My randomly assigned phone number was the Chinese equivalent of 1-800-DIE-DEAD.
Another bad digit you want to avoid offending your significant other with is “7,” connoted with “anger.” When bound-foot grannies sit down to tell their granddaughters’ fortunes with a stack of cards you can just see their brows furrowing deeper as more seven’s appear. While it’s a lucky number in America, in China the appearance of seven augers “a lifetime of anger and frustration.”
A strange and inexplicably disdained number sequence is “250.” In mainland China, to call someone two-fifty (either as a noun or adjective) is to suggest that they are a blundering moron. I’m not sure how this evolved but it makes daily commerce a tad more difficult as sellers and buyers dance around the number, careful to charge RMB249 or RMB251, but never two hundred and fifty yuan.
These are some of the older, more traditional number superstitions. In popular culture and chat (or text) speak there are plenty of meaningful digits, the equivalent of English acronyms like “LOL” and “BRB.” Take “521” for example, which is read as “wu er yao” but accepted as short hand for “wo ai ni” (“I love you”). Another cutesy phrase is “7758,” which sounds out as “qi qi wu ba” but slurs into “qin qin wo ba” (“kiss me”). If romantic and touchy feely expressions aren’t your thing you can always opt for proposing a “419” to your online chat buddy or pub pick up. That’s “four one nine,” or “for one night” (one night stand) to the young and number savvy!
Sunday, October 11, 2009
Friday, October 9, 2009
Daily Anecdotes: Whatchamacallit
While working at the Canadian school in Beijing many of my fellow teachers would asked me, "Why do the students call us 'teacher' instead of 'Ms. Smith'?" New arrivals to China are often baffled by this method of address. Some wonder if it is akin to calling a school custodian "janitor." Is it impolite to address someone by his occupation?
This is one of those counterintuitive issues that get new arrivals in cultural trouble. Unlike in many western countries it is a sign of respect here in China to call a person by his post in life. In fact, the number of instances when it's acceptable to address another person directly by name, or simply starting a conversation without prefacing with a proper appellation is significantly more limited than in Anglophone societies.
This emphasis on titles of respect is most apparent in the extensive Chinese vocabulary for familial relations. Whereas in America a simple lexicon of "aunt," "uncle," "cousin," "grandparents," and "in-law" will get you through most family gatherings, this limited set of labels in China equips you to speak with the precision of a 3-year-old.
The intricate web of Chinese family titles begins with the paternal and maternal dichotomy. For example, my mother's brother and my father’s brother are both “uncle” in English, but in Chinese they would be "jiu" and "shu," respectively. A relative’s age also determines the appropriate title. Thus, my father's younger brother is "shu" but his older brother is "da ye" to me. Whether one is related by blood or marriage also shapes their appellation. When it comes to aunts my father’s younger brother’s wife is “shen” while his sister is "gu." There are even specific titles for the more tenuous familial relationships, like “lian qiao,” which describes two men married to two sisters. Now, when have you ever called someone a name to such telling detail in English?
Family titles may be complex but at least things are clear. What to call people outside of the family is a trickier question. There seems to be labels to endless specificity for addressing people in every station in life. Using the wrong one can be disrespectful.
The general rule for acquaintances is to address each other by job titles. Hence, even though my mom only taught classes for a few years at the start of her career, legions of people they knew in university still refer to her as "Li lao shi." This naming scheme is also transitive, so students of my mother’s one-time students take to calling her "shi nai" (literally "teacher grandma"), even if they are her age or older. Other common job-based titles include "chu zhang," "ju zhang," (two mid-level bureaucratic ranks) and the pervasive “zong” (meaning “chief,” short for “chief executive officer”). In fact, the latter is a widely abused title as everyone likes to flatter their business associates with the “zong” title regardless of whether they are CEO of anything.
If you think figuring out what to call acquaintances can get you in a pickle things get even fuzzier when it comes to near strangers and service people. Life was easy as a child when I had a simple system of calling everyone that looked younger than my parents “shu shu” and “ayi” (“uncle” and “auntie”); men slightly older than my father were shown due respect with “bai bai”; and people with white hair undoubtedly became “ye ye” and “nai nai” (“grandpa” and “grandma”).
Now that I'm an adult I can no longer resort to these childish titles and have to figure out for myself what the appropriate appellations are in any social situation. Last week, while crossing China westward in a train I mistakenly called a train attendant "fu wu yuan" (“waiter,” the most common way of addressing service people) when the proper name should've been "lie che yuan" (“train car attendant”). On my return flight I tried to avoid repeating my mistake and didn’t dare to ask for water until I could remember the name for “flight attendant” is “cheng wu yuan.”
There’s plenty of room for blunders when you’re unsure of someone’s occupation or age. For example, when asking a stranger for directions it’s always hard to know whether to call him “lao da ye” (someone of your parents’ generation but slight older) or “lao ye ye” (“old grandpa”).
My greatest solace in this maze of respectful labels is in knowing that many Chinese feel just as awkward as I do addressing strangers. So much has changed in China over the last twenty years -- titles have come and gone – frequently leaving people grappling for the right word.
Before the economic open door policy and its moderating effect on communist ideology, Chinese commonly addressed each other by “tong zhi” (“comrade”). Nowadays this title is hopelessly outdated and it has also been re-appropriated as a tongue-in-cheek method of address among gay people.
Immediately after “comrade” went out of fashion, Western sensibilities became a la mode and Chinese began calling each other “Mister” and “Miss” (“xian sheng”, "xiao jie"). Today, it’s still fine to call a man “Mister” but if you call a young lady “Miss” she might slap you in the face for insinuating that she works in the world’s oldest profession.
Eager-to-please merchants and vendors have tried to circumvent potential embarassments by speaking to their customers in a familial tone. Older customers are called “ayi” (“auntie”) or “da jie” (“big sister”), younger ones become “xiao mei” (“little sister”). It’s a delicate balance for salespeople between showing an older woman due respect (“ayi”) and flattering her (“big sister”). Things often take a hilarious turn when I shop with my mother, whom vendors like to call “da jie,” but then they turn to me and address me as “xiao mei.” Mixing of generations (calling my mother and me both “sister”) is a big cultural no-no.
In recent years I’ve noticed a new trend among innovative merchants. “Mei nu” (“pretty girl”) and “shuai ge” (“handsome guy”) have become hugely popular. Even elderly vendors sporting heads full of white hair have adopted this hip vernacular in an attempt to attract customers’ attention. Now there’s something really uncomfortable for me to have a “lao ye ye” call out “hey hottie”! This set of titles, like others, will probably fade from common usage soon enough, leaving us once again with the question of what to call each other!
This is one of those counterintuitive issues that get new arrivals in cultural trouble. Unlike in many western countries it is a sign of respect here in China to call a person by his post in life. In fact, the number of instances when it's acceptable to address another person directly by name, or simply starting a conversation without prefacing with a proper appellation is significantly more limited than in Anglophone societies.
This emphasis on titles of respect is most apparent in the extensive Chinese vocabulary for familial relations. Whereas in America a simple lexicon of "aunt," "uncle," "cousin," "grandparents," and "in-law" will get you through most family gatherings, this limited set of labels in China equips you to speak with the precision of a 3-year-old.
The intricate web of Chinese family titles begins with the paternal and maternal dichotomy. For example, my mother's brother and my father’s brother are both “uncle” in English, but in Chinese they would be "jiu" and "shu," respectively. A relative’s age also determines the appropriate title. Thus, my father's younger brother is "shu" but his older brother is "da ye" to me. Whether one is related by blood or marriage also shapes their appellation. When it comes to aunts my father’s younger brother’s wife is “shen” while his sister is "gu." There are even specific titles for the more tenuous familial relationships, like “lian qiao,” which describes two men married to two sisters. Now, when have you ever called someone a name to such telling detail in English?
Family titles may be complex but at least things are clear. What to call people outside of the family is a trickier question. There seems to be labels to endless specificity for addressing people in every station in life. Using the wrong one can be disrespectful.
The general rule for acquaintances is to address each other by job titles. Hence, even though my mom only taught classes for a few years at the start of her career, legions of people they knew in university still refer to her as "Li lao shi." This naming scheme is also transitive, so students of my mother’s one-time students take to calling her "shi nai" (literally "teacher grandma"), even if they are her age or older. Other common job-based titles include "chu zhang," "ju zhang," (two mid-level bureaucratic ranks) and the pervasive “zong” (meaning “chief,” short for “chief executive officer”). In fact, the latter is a widely abused title as everyone likes to flatter their business associates with the “zong” title regardless of whether they are CEO of anything.
If you think figuring out what to call acquaintances can get you in a pickle things get even fuzzier when it comes to near strangers and service people. Life was easy as a child when I had a simple system of calling everyone that looked younger than my parents “shu shu” and “ayi” (“uncle” and “auntie”); men slightly older than my father were shown due respect with “bai bai”; and people with white hair undoubtedly became “ye ye” and “nai nai” (“grandpa” and “grandma”).
Now that I'm an adult I can no longer resort to these childish titles and have to figure out for myself what the appropriate appellations are in any social situation. Last week, while crossing China westward in a train I mistakenly called a train attendant "fu wu yuan" (“waiter,” the most common way of addressing service people) when the proper name should've been "lie che yuan" (“train car attendant”). On my return flight I tried to avoid repeating my mistake and didn’t dare to ask for water until I could remember the name for “flight attendant” is “cheng wu yuan.”
There’s plenty of room for blunders when you’re unsure of someone’s occupation or age. For example, when asking a stranger for directions it’s always hard to know whether to call him “lao da ye” (someone of your parents’ generation but slight older) or “lao ye ye” (“old grandpa”).
My greatest solace in this maze of respectful labels is in knowing that many Chinese feel just as awkward as I do addressing strangers. So much has changed in China over the last twenty years -- titles have come and gone – frequently leaving people grappling for the right word.
Before the economic open door policy and its moderating effect on communist ideology, Chinese commonly addressed each other by “tong zhi” (“comrade”). Nowadays this title is hopelessly outdated and it has also been re-appropriated as a tongue-in-cheek method of address among gay people.
Immediately after “comrade” went out of fashion, Western sensibilities became a la mode and Chinese began calling each other “Mister” and “Miss” (“xian sheng”, "xiao jie"). Today, it’s still fine to call a man “Mister” but if you call a young lady “Miss” she might slap you in the face for insinuating that she works in the world’s oldest profession.
Eager-to-please merchants and vendors have tried to circumvent potential embarassments by speaking to their customers in a familial tone. Older customers are called “ayi” (“auntie”) or “da jie” (“big sister”), younger ones become “xiao mei” (“little sister”). It’s a delicate balance for salespeople between showing an older woman due respect (“ayi”) and flattering her (“big sister”). Things often take a hilarious turn when I shop with my mother, whom vendors like to call “da jie,” but then they turn to me and address me as “xiao mei.” Mixing of generations (calling my mother and me both “sister”) is a big cultural no-no.
In recent years I’ve noticed a new trend among innovative merchants. “Mei nu” (“pretty girl”) and “shuai ge” (“handsome guy”) have become hugely popular. Even elderly vendors sporting heads full of white hair have adopted this hip vernacular in an attempt to attract customers’ attention. Now there’s something really uncomfortable for me to have a “lao ye ye” call out “hey hottie”! This set of titles, like others, will probably fade from common usage soon enough, leaving us once again with the question of what to call each other!
Wednesday, September 30, 2009
Birthday Stats
In the half hour before I have to set off on my arduous journey to the railway station I'm glued to my TV watching live broadcasts of the final preparations for the China's 60th birthday celebration. Some interesting statistics I've just heard:
1.7 million -- people participating in the parade
2 -- AM since performers started standing in position at Tiananmen Square
169 -- steps flag bearers will walk on Chang'an Avenue
1'6" -- minutes and seconds it takes for a certain portion of the parade to pass
8 -- the number of teeth each singer in the children's choir is to show in a smile
80,000 -- children bearing colored banners forming patterns you can see from aerial view
1 -- second each banner change is supposed to be done in
I'm sure there'll be more astounding numbers rattled off on TV today. I'll be watching from my train car!
Signing off for a week...tales from the desert to come after!
1.7 million -- people participating in the parade
2 -- AM since performers started standing in position at Tiananmen Square
169 -- steps flag bearers will walk on Chang'an Avenue
1'6" -- minutes and seconds it takes for a certain portion of the parade to pass
8 -- the number of teeth each singer in the children's choir is to show in a smile
80,000 -- children bearing colored banners forming patterns you can see from aerial view
1 -- second each banner change is supposed to be done in
I'm sure there'll be more astounding numbers rattled off on TV today. I'll be watching from my train car!
Signing off for a week...tales from the desert to come after!
Tuesday, September 29, 2009
Daily Anecdote: Ringing In the 60th
China’s 60th birthday is just two days away. Here in Beijing it feels like the entire city is on spring-cleaning duty. Potted plants in bright greens, reds, and yellows are everywhere – lining sidewalks, stacked onto metal stands to form the shape of pagodas, and arranged according to color to spell out “National Celebration.” Banners bearing upbeat slogans (“Continue striving for ‘xiaokang’ society!“) have been strung over bridges and tunnels. Large structures, be they residential complexes or commercial space, proudly bear China’s “five star red flag.” Everything has to be spic and span when the largest parade in China’s history (1.7 million people are reported to be taking part) rolls onto Chang’an Avenue.
The works don’t end at making the city look its best. Beijing is also making sure everyone is behaving their best. For weeks I puzzled over the groups of middle-aged people sitting on folding stools at street corners. Are they exercise groups? Conversation clubs? Who are these early birds plunking themselves down at busy intersections before the clock even strikes 8 AM?
The mystery was solved on Monday when these rag tag groups showed up uniformly decked out in bright yellow t-shirts painted with the “60” logo. Their red armbands now say “Capital Security Volunteer.” These citizens are “voluntarily” (in truth this is a paid temp job) patrolling street corners to spot suspicious activity that could get in the way of the celebrations. All security personnel in the city – private guards employed by banks, offices, and homes – have also been given this volunteer uniform and instructed to look out for party poopers. In the extensive subway system there’s yet another group of temporary recruits wearing bright blue hats and shirts (emblazoned with “Beijing Volunteer”) and sporting matching fanny packs. Their job is to watch every metro car. With this many people out on surveillance there’s little chance that a group of disgruntled Uighurs or Tibetans or anyone harboring the host of contemporary Chinese discontents can disrupt the festivities.
It wouldn’t be a party if everyone were just being watched. There are fun parts too for the everyman. The government has promoted a whopping sixty patriotic films for release around the October 1 holiday. I’m not talking about black and white propaganda films here. It’s stuff that people actually want to watch! The biggest movie release of the bunch is “The Founding of a Republic”, directed by a group of big ticket filmmakers, including Zhang Yimou and Chen Kaige. This two-hour movie is a starfest – I counted over forty famous faces making appearances, most of them in cameo roles. The Brad Pitts and Angelina Jolies of Chinese cinema (including HK) are all involved. It’s like “Ocean’s 11” times twenty. You won’t find artistic collaboration to this extent under any other circumstance.
“Founding” tells the epic story of the Chinese civil war and how Mao Zedong and the Communist Party eventually won. Other patriotic movies promoted for the 60th anniversary are themed around espionage and WWII. These also bear long lists of A-list actors and the trailers have the seductive appeal of last year’s “Lust Caution.”
I watched “Founding,” out of a sense of duty to accompany my mother and also because the trailer was poignantly appealing. I have to say I quite enjoyed it – the cinematography was phenomenal (I doubt any other Chinese film has had so generous a budget), the costumes exquisite, and the representation of modern Chinese history was not as biased as I expected. Even the English subtitles were all written correctly, making the film, in theory, internationally distributable. The only gaffe in the movie was the miscasting of two foreign characters – an African American soldier was played by what I can guess to be a Kenyan and John Stuart Leighton (the famous American ambassador) was played by an Australian. (With so many foreigners living in China I would’ve expected more appropriate foreign casting). Small faux pas aside, if this were a purely commercial film it would rank among the “Crouching Tiger Hidden Dragon” types and garner international awards for its arresting visuals.
The biggest downer to the big ole party is the mobility restrictions it has placed on Beijing residents. On the big day, I’m scheduled to set off for a week-long tour of Inner Mongolia and nearby areas, including a few days of camping in the desert. But, like most other travelers, I’m still confused as to whether I can actually get myself to the train station. The government has severely limited private traffic for security concerns and to ensure the logistics of transporting almost two million people to their performing post goes smoothly.
Beijing’s main subway line, the East-West Line 1, will be suspended from midnight on September 30 to midnight the next day. Chang’an Avenue is closed to traffic for the 24-hour period, as are the 2nd and 3rd Ring roads. There are rumors – but no reliable official word – that parts of the 4th Ring road will also be closed. This essentially means citizens can’t get from point to point within the city starting on the eve of the birthday.
Already my commute tonight became onerous. On the way home from work I saw more police cars and starchy navy uniforms than taxis. Forced to take a bus, I found myself squished against other human sardines in a bus spilling over with riders eager to get home before the virtual lock down begins. Gridlock traffic was worse than usual.
I'm nervously awaiting an official announcement on road conditions, but even if this comes out tomorrow there’s always the possibility of the government making last minute changes to make sure its agenda gets carried out first and foremost. Here’s hoping that I won’t celebrate the 60th anniversary of my country’s founding with a backpack strapped to me, trekking 30km across Beijing to get to the train station on time!
The works don’t end at making the city look its best. Beijing is also making sure everyone is behaving their best. For weeks I puzzled over the groups of middle-aged people sitting on folding stools at street corners. Are they exercise groups? Conversation clubs? Who are these early birds plunking themselves down at busy intersections before the clock even strikes 8 AM?
The mystery was solved on Monday when these rag tag groups showed up uniformly decked out in bright yellow t-shirts painted with the “60” logo. Their red armbands now say “Capital Security Volunteer.” These citizens are “voluntarily” (in truth this is a paid temp job) patrolling street corners to spot suspicious activity that could get in the way of the celebrations. All security personnel in the city – private guards employed by banks, offices, and homes – have also been given this volunteer uniform and instructed to look out for party poopers. In the extensive subway system there’s yet another group of temporary recruits wearing bright blue hats and shirts (emblazoned with “Beijing Volunteer”) and sporting matching fanny packs. Their job is to watch every metro car. With this many people out on surveillance there’s little chance that a group of disgruntled Uighurs or Tibetans or anyone harboring the host of contemporary Chinese discontents can disrupt the festivities.
It wouldn’t be a party if everyone were just being watched. There are fun parts too for the everyman. The government has promoted a whopping sixty patriotic films for release around the October 1 holiday. I’m not talking about black and white propaganda films here. It’s stuff that people actually want to watch! The biggest movie release of the bunch is “The Founding of a Republic”, directed by a group of big ticket filmmakers, including Zhang Yimou and Chen Kaige. This two-hour movie is a starfest – I counted over forty famous faces making appearances, most of them in cameo roles. The Brad Pitts and Angelina Jolies of Chinese cinema (including HK) are all involved. It’s like “Ocean’s 11” times twenty. You won’t find artistic collaboration to this extent under any other circumstance.
“Founding” tells the epic story of the Chinese civil war and how Mao Zedong and the Communist Party eventually won. Other patriotic movies promoted for the 60th anniversary are themed around espionage and WWII. These also bear long lists of A-list actors and the trailers have the seductive appeal of last year’s “Lust Caution.”
I watched “Founding,” out of a sense of duty to accompany my mother and also because the trailer was poignantly appealing. I have to say I quite enjoyed it – the cinematography was phenomenal (I doubt any other Chinese film has had so generous a budget), the costumes exquisite, and the representation of modern Chinese history was not as biased as I expected. Even the English subtitles were all written correctly, making the film, in theory, internationally distributable. The only gaffe in the movie was the miscasting of two foreign characters – an African American soldier was played by what I can guess to be a Kenyan and John Stuart Leighton (the famous American ambassador) was played by an Australian. (With so many foreigners living in China I would’ve expected more appropriate foreign casting). Small faux pas aside, if this were a purely commercial film it would rank among the “Crouching Tiger Hidden Dragon” types and garner international awards for its arresting visuals.
The biggest downer to the big ole party is the mobility restrictions it has placed on Beijing residents. On the big day, I’m scheduled to set off for a week-long tour of Inner Mongolia and nearby areas, including a few days of camping in the desert. But, like most other travelers, I’m still confused as to whether I can actually get myself to the train station. The government has severely limited private traffic for security concerns and to ensure the logistics of transporting almost two million people to their performing post goes smoothly.
Beijing’s main subway line, the East-West Line 1, will be suspended from midnight on September 30 to midnight the next day. Chang’an Avenue is closed to traffic for the 24-hour period, as are the 2nd and 3rd Ring roads. There are rumors – but no reliable official word – that parts of the 4th Ring road will also be closed. This essentially means citizens can’t get from point to point within the city starting on the eve of the birthday.
Already my commute tonight became onerous. On the way home from work I saw more police cars and starchy navy uniforms than taxis. Forced to take a bus, I found myself squished against other human sardines in a bus spilling over with riders eager to get home before the virtual lock down begins. Gridlock traffic was worse than usual.
I'm nervously awaiting an official announcement on road conditions, but even if this comes out tomorrow there’s always the possibility of the government making last minute changes to make sure its agenda gets carried out first and foremost. Here’s hoping that I won’t celebrate the 60th anniversary of my country’s founding with a backpack strapped to me, trekking 30km across Beijing to get to the train station on time!
Wednesday, September 23, 2009
Daily Anecdote: Mom and Pop Recycling
I’m on a budding green streak so I did a little poking and digging into recycling in China. I was always under the impression that Chinese people don’t care about recycling; we’re too busy making our newfound wealth to bother with separating the trash or participating in green fundraisers. Apparently I’m wrong. Recycling in China is a big deal, it just happens in a different way than I’m used to.
My perception that Chinese “don’t care” comes from the fact that I’m accustomed to seeing recycling born out of a moral decision. People living in developed countries choose to rinse out their milk bottles and sort their garbage because they are environmentally conscious. Although this level of green morality is not yet be widespread in China, recycling happens here -- and extensively so -- as a result of a million small economic decisions. People recycle in developing countries because they can make a living doing it.
The truth is in the numbers. China is one of the world leaders in recycling waste paper, which makes up some 60% of the fiber used to manufacture paper products here. I suspect there are similarly surprising statistics in plastics and glass.
Indeed, everywhere I look I see mom and pop recyclers busily going about their work. On most street corners there are old ladies fishing treasures out of the city garbage cans with tongs. The more vigilant ones follow me around if they see me carrying a half empty bottle of beverage, waiting to snatch it up the minute I dispose of it. I’ve even had people come up to me to ask, “Are you going to finish that?” (This usually leads to my gulping the drink down to save them the trouble of sifting through the bin). Tricycles regularly go through residential neighborhoods, their riders beating drums, singing in loud voices for people to sell their household waste.
Once the reusables are gathered, they are collected via an extensive network of centers. Tricycles zip by every road with their “trunks” piled high with aluminum cans, plastic bottles, or corrugated board. They’re en route to the recycling centers, which seem to have multiplied over the years when I wasn’t watching. If you go by a nondescript warehouse at the right hour you’ll see tricycles lining up to deposit their finds in exchange for cash. The dinky rooms hold monstrously large mountains of recyclable goods.
Whether economic or moral, environmentally-friendly decisions are made on a daily basis here. The government is doing its part to bridge the gap between moral and cash-incentivized green behavior. I’ve already mentioned the “no free plastic bags” policy now in place in China. Public awareness campaigns are also on the rise. On subway cars, an animated frog named Leon lights up the screens and to entertain commuters with cartoon clips about the merits of recycling. On buses, valuable advertising space is taken up with little diagrams about how many trees or barrels of oil can be saved from recycling. I hope that as China makes the transition from developing to developed country our green behavior will evolve seamlessly from cash-based decisions to morality-driven ones.
My perception that Chinese “don’t care” comes from the fact that I’m accustomed to seeing recycling born out of a moral decision. People living in developed countries choose to rinse out their milk bottles and sort their garbage because they are environmentally conscious. Although this level of green morality is not yet be widespread in China, recycling happens here -- and extensively so -- as a result of a million small economic decisions. People recycle in developing countries because they can make a living doing it.
The truth is in the numbers. China is one of the world leaders in recycling waste paper, which makes up some 60% of the fiber used to manufacture paper products here. I suspect there are similarly surprising statistics in plastics and glass.
Indeed, everywhere I look I see mom and pop recyclers busily going about their work. On most street corners there are old ladies fishing treasures out of the city garbage cans with tongs. The more vigilant ones follow me around if they see me carrying a half empty bottle of beverage, waiting to snatch it up the minute I dispose of it. I’ve even had people come up to me to ask, “Are you going to finish that?” (This usually leads to my gulping the drink down to save them the trouble of sifting through the bin). Tricycles regularly go through residential neighborhoods, their riders beating drums, singing in loud voices for people to sell their household waste.
Once the reusables are gathered, they are collected via an extensive network of centers. Tricycles zip by every road with their “trunks” piled high with aluminum cans, plastic bottles, or corrugated board. They’re en route to the recycling centers, which seem to have multiplied over the years when I wasn’t watching. If you go by a nondescript warehouse at the right hour you’ll see tricycles lining up to deposit their finds in exchange for cash. The dinky rooms hold monstrously large mountains of recyclable goods.
Whether economic or moral, environmentally-friendly decisions are made on a daily basis here. The government is doing its part to bridge the gap between moral and cash-incentivized green behavior. I’ve already mentioned the “no free plastic bags” policy now in place in China. Public awareness campaigns are also on the rise. On subway cars, an animated frog named Leon lights up the screens and to entertain commuters with cartoon clips about the merits of recycling. On buses, valuable advertising space is taken up with little diagrams about how many trees or barrels of oil can be saved from recycling. I hope that as China makes the transition from developing to developed country our green behavior will evolve seamlessly from cash-based decisions to morality-driven ones.
Tuesday, September 22, 2009
Being Green: Paper Napkins and Plastic Sporks
I’m not much of an environmentalist. I don’t hug trees, I rarely think about energy efficient light bulbs, and I’ve never used the words “carbon footprint” in a conversation. Yet, in my travels this year, the issue of paper and plastic usage keeps coming to my attention. As my friends and family know well, much of what I do when I travel is eat. Naturally, it is at dining tables that I felt most keenly the big differences in how people around the world consume paper and plastic.
When I left New York for Singapore two years ago, I had grown used to the luxurious (some would say wasteful) usage of disposables in America. Arriving in Singapore, I was at first dismayed to find that most casual eateries (of which there are plenty) in this foodie nation do not provide napkins to diners. This “napkin stinginess” bugged me initially but after living there a while I got used to toting around my own tissue packets. If I happen to forget my pocket tissues, too bad for me, I would have to forego the luxury of wiping my hands clean and would have to wash instead.
Other aspects of Singapore’s paper and plastic conscientiousness grew on me. I started to like seeing foods packaged in strange vessels – drinks poured into small plastic sacs tied at the end; chicken rice and char kway teo wrapped in waxed paper; soup is about the only thing that entitles you to the extravagance of a plastic take-out bowl. The inconveniences of dining without free-flowing napkins and disposable containers melted away into a kind of rustic Asian charm.
Going from Singapore to my “summer home” (more like budget rental) in Paris was an easy switch. Although American tourists complained about the lack of proper take-out equipment, I was happy to carry my baguette out of the bakery with only a small square of pastry paper covering its middle. At the markets, free plastic bags are so small and flimsy that I preferred bringing my own foldable shopping bag. If I had stayed longer I probably would’ve splurged on a panier on wheels, like the ones old ladies use to haul their groceries home. At restaurants, I felt more civilized dabbing my lips with cloth serviettes instead of paper napkins. And I came to appreciate why many restaurants don’t do take-out – why bother stocking up on expensive plastic wares? And what insane diners would prefer eating in the solitude of their cramped apartment instead of in an ambient café? The French paper and plastic stinginess struck me as an accidentally green kind of sophistication.
When I left Europe for a visit back to the US I felt a real culture shock. After learning to live with fewer paper napkins and plastic sporks (and liking it), the sight of a delivery boy on my doorstep holding four lunch tacos in TWO separate paper bags, each double wrapped in a heavy duty plastic bag, weirded me out. What’s with the reinforcement? Do the restaurants think a paper bag by itself would’ve torn under the weight of two tacos carried over five blocks?
Open a take-out bag and you’ll find more confounding excess – three full sets of plastic cutlery (fork, spoon, and knife) for a two-person order, a hefty serving of folded tree (in case the food is delivered to a household devoid of its own towels and tissues).
Elsewhere, juice joints stuff stacks of plush napkins into your hand when you buy a single cup of OJ, perhaps expecting a spill every time. Ziploc bags are bought and discarded without a thought. Durable take-out food containers rarely get a rinse and a reuse. God bless America, a land of abundance, especially when it comes to napkins and sporks.
It was another big switch, the biggest one in fact, to land in Beijing after being in the US. I didn’t read the January 2008 memo that banned shops from handing out free plastic bags to customers. So I was the only sucker paying up big bucks for plastic receptacles for my groceries when everyone else whipped out their reusable cloth shopping bags. When it comes to paper, China is and has always been stingy. If restaurants provide paper napkins they’re usually modest, flimsy squares dispensed one piece (and one ply) at a time. Take-out boxes here aren’t so much boxes as paper envelopes fortified with a little plastic.
The dining and shopping experience in China has quickly evolved into a system of BYOPB (plastic bag), BYOC (container – I’ve seen people bring their kitchen pots to the neighborhood restaurant for take-out), and BYOTP (toilet paper). These inconveniences bother me a little, especially when I’ve forgotten to BMO (bring my own). Yet, on a bigger scale, paper and plastic stinginess actually makes me feel better about the shopping and eating that I do everyday. My purchases may make a hole in my wallet but at least they’re not doing the same to the ozone layer, adding to a landfill, or felling a forest.
When I left New York for Singapore two years ago, I had grown used to the luxurious (some would say wasteful) usage of disposables in America. Arriving in Singapore, I was at first dismayed to find that most casual eateries (of which there are plenty) in this foodie nation do not provide napkins to diners. This “napkin stinginess” bugged me initially but after living there a while I got used to toting around my own tissue packets. If I happen to forget my pocket tissues, too bad for me, I would have to forego the luxury of wiping my hands clean and would have to wash instead.
Other aspects of Singapore’s paper and plastic conscientiousness grew on me. I started to like seeing foods packaged in strange vessels – drinks poured into small plastic sacs tied at the end; chicken rice and char kway teo wrapped in waxed paper; soup is about the only thing that entitles you to the extravagance of a plastic take-out bowl. The inconveniences of dining without free-flowing napkins and disposable containers melted away into a kind of rustic Asian charm.
Going from Singapore to my “summer home” (more like budget rental) in Paris was an easy switch. Although American tourists complained about the lack of proper take-out equipment, I was happy to carry my baguette out of the bakery with only a small square of pastry paper covering its middle. At the markets, free plastic bags are so small and flimsy that I preferred bringing my own foldable shopping bag. If I had stayed longer I probably would’ve splurged on a panier on wheels, like the ones old ladies use to haul their groceries home. At restaurants, I felt more civilized dabbing my lips with cloth serviettes instead of paper napkins. And I came to appreciate why many restaurants don’t do take-out – why bother stocking up on expensive plastic wares? And what insane diners would prefer eating in the solitude of their cramped apartment instead of in an ambient café? The French paper and plastic stinginess struck me as an accidentally green kind of sophistication.
When I left Europe for a visit back to the US I felt a real culture shock. After learning to live with fewer paper napkins and plastic sporks (and liking it), the sight of a delivery boy on my doorstep holding four lunch tacos in TWO separate paper bags, each double wrapped in a heavy duty plastic bag, weirded me out. What’s with the reinforcement? Do the restaurants think a paper bag by itself would’ve torn under the weight of two tacos carried over five blocks?
Open a take-out bag and you’ll find more confounding excess – three full sets of plastic cutlery (fork, spoon, and knife) for a two-person order, a hefty serving of folded tree (in case the food is delivered to a household devoid of its own towels and tissues).
Elsewhere, juice joints stuff stacks of plush napkins into your hand when you buy a single cup of OJ, perhaps expecting a spill every time. Ziploc bags are bought and discarded without a thought. Durable take-out food containers rarely get a rinse and a reuse. God bless America, a land of abundance, especially when it comes to napkins and sporks.
It was another big switch, the biggest one in fact, to land in Beijing after being in the US. I didn’t read the January 2008 memo that banned shops from handing out free plastic bags to customers. So I was the only sucker paying up big bucks for plastic receptacles for my groceries when everyone else whipped out their reusable cloth shopping bags. When it comes to paper, China is and has always been stingy. If restaurants provide paper napkins they’re usually modest, flimsy squares dispensed one piece (and one ply) at a time. Take-out boxes here aren’t so much boxes as paper envelopes fortified with a little plastic.
The dining and shopping experience in China has quickly evolved into a system of BYOPB (plastic bag), BYOC (container – I’ve seen people bring their kitchen pots to the neighborhood restaurant for take-out), and BYOTP (toilet paper). These inconveniences bother me a little, especially when I’ve forgotten to BMO (bring my own). Yet, on a bigger scale, paper and plastic stinginess actually makes me feel better about the shopping and eating that I do everyday. My purchases may make a hole in my wallet but at least they’re not doing the same to the ozone layer, adding to a landfill, or felling a forest.
Thursday, September 17, 2009
Daily Anecdote: Bargaining 101
Inflation and currency appreciation have killed my game. I used to come to China for annual wardrobe updates on the cheap. Now China is so expensive that I’m resorting to the markets for a good deal. (The department stores long ago exceeded my willingness to pay for domestic brands and Shenzhen factory quality). Although I didn’t find what I needed (a fake North Face bag to replace my broken real one) at the right price at Silk Street market, the trip did refresh my memory of just how varied bargaining styles are. Here’s a modest catalogue of bargaining strategies for novices…
The Aggro
Shopkeepers like to wear you down with loud and persistent haggling. After a while I usually figure that my eardrums are worth more than the measly dollars I’m trying to bargain down, so I pay up. But the Aggro bargainer never caves in. He counters the seller’s strategy by being even more unbearable himself. My cousin Evan is an expert Aggro. He’ll plants himself firmly in a stall and shout ludicrous things until the vendor gives him the discount, just to get him out of there. A typical Evan line, “What? 30RMB? For 30 RMB I’ll make one and sell it back to you! 5RMB, that’s all I’m going to pay!”
The Poor Card
The polar opposite to the Aggro, the Poor Card approach is an exercise in solemnity and silence. The buyer remains uncomfortably stoic while the vendor chatters away. He doesn’t engage in the two-way negotiation, he just reiterates a desired price when the seller takes a breather from talking. A classic line is, “But this is all the money I have,” said over and over again. There’s also a Poor Card expert in my family -- my mom. Her skillful silence got me a fancy set of bedding (pillow cases, cushions, sheets, the whole shebang) for 300 when the seller asked for 900.
“This Sucks”
This strategy works for people who can bring themselves to shamelessly nitpick. The buyers see something they like, try it on, decide it is a good thing, and then proceeds to disparage it. Disdainful body language is a helpful complement -- holding up the item with two fingers, shaking it, screwing up your face to say, “Look at this shoddy stitching” all work. Disdain quickly turns to glee when the seller gives up and hands you that piece of clothing you really didn’t want just half a minute ago.
The Cutesies
This occasionally works for pretty, young girls. You’d have to try the clothes on, look dazzlingly good, prance about the stall attracting other shoppers’ attention, and sweetly ask “Ayi” (auntie) or “Jie” (older sister) to please give you a discount. Shopkeepers are pretty immune to buyers’ tricks, but once in a while they soften to a pleading girl.
The Non-bargaining Bargain
This works surprisingly well for foreigners. Often you see big white men shrugging their shoulders with an “I don’t know what I’m doing” expression, smiling guiltily, tentatively saying “No, no, I can’t pay that much.” These buyers don’t know the rules, don’t know how much things should be, don’t know how to set their price…and it works! They’re blissfully and ignorantly playing the “how low will you go” patience game.
For every buyer bargaining style in the book there’s probably a dozen matching sells. Let’s take a look at how the merchants hold up their end of the bargain.
The Linguists
Walk down any crowded alley way at Silk Street and you’ll see foreign buyers delighted with the shopkeepers’ linguistic dexterity. These guys work hard for their money, learning how to say, “Your wife is beautiful!” and “You’re killing me with your prices” in English, French, German, Spanish, Japanese, Russian, just to name a few. The sight of so many vendors speaking so many languages to lure buyers may be the number one draw at the markets.
The Soft Sell
I learned about this first hand when Geoff and I were separated for a few brief minutes at Silk Street. When I found him again he had three salesgirls on his arms, tugging at his shirt, rubbing his biceps, pulling him into their stall. They don’t do this to couples but any time an unsupervised male shows up the shopkeepers pounce and show them what it means to “sa jiao.” (If you don’t know what this is, ask a friend who has dated a Chinese girl, or wait for a future posting!)
The Flatterers
White lies, even blatant lies, are rampant as sellers stroke buyers’ egos. “This dress could only work on a figure like yours! Bigger girls come by and I don’t even let them try it, I know it won’t fit.” If a piece is too big on you the vendors says, “It’s perfectly breezy for the summer.” If it’s too tight, “You don’t want to wear things loose and dowdy!” If you’re wondering about how a linen skirt will fare when the weather cools, vendors reply, “This is heavy linen, it’ll work well into the fall.” If it’s wool you’re fingering in the summer, they say, “This is good material, it’s seasonless.”
The Poor Card
Just as buyers cry poor, so do sellers. Shopkeepers love to mutter, “I tell you, I’m not making any money on this, I’m giving it to you at cost (or at a loss)!” as they start to wrap up your purchase. Right after a smile appears as he bids you adieu, and you know you might’ve asked for an even lower price.
“This Quality!”
Even though 99.9% of the goods in the big markets are made in shady factories somewhere down south (Dongguan?), that doesn’t stop the sellers from asking a high price for superior quality. Over the years I’ve heard, “This is imported.” “This is export quality.” “This is a famous Italian brand, Goocci.” “That’s a Nordic model, that’s why the sizes run big.” “This (fake) is better than the real thing.”
This last pitch threw me into some trouble at Silk Street this time. I found some North Face copies but balked when the sellers demanded RMB380 (~$55). I blurted, not as a bargaining tactic but out of pure surprise, “But a real North Face costs only $30 on sale at a US outlet.” This really didn’t sit well with the shopkeeper who insisted that his bags were made at the same factory as the real ones, with better materials.
After huffing and puffing at me for a while, the vendor resorted to the last bargaining ploy, The Dismissal. He waved me away with one hand, saying, “If you don’t have money to buy good quality why don’t you just go buy the real one.” This must be one for the ages, a fake goods peddler telling me that the real goods are cheaper!
The Aggro
Shopkeepers like to wear you down with loud and persistent haggling. After a while I usually figure that my eardrums are worth more than the measly dollars I’m trying to bargain down, so I pay up. But the Aggro bargainer never caves in. He counters the seller’s strategy by being even more unbearable himself. My cousin Evan is an expert Aggro. He’ll plants himself firmly in a stall and shout ludicrous things until the vendor gives him the discount, just to get him out of there. A typical Evan line, “What? 30RMB? For 30 RMB I’ll make one and sell it back to you! 5RMB, that’s all I’m going to pay!”
The Poor Card
The polar opposite to the Aggro, the Poor Card approach is an exercise in solemnity and silence. The buyer remains uncomfortably stoic while the vendor chatters away. He doesn’t engage in the two-way negotiation, he just reiterates a desired price when the seller takes a breather from talking. A classic line is, “But this is all the money I have,” said over and over again. There’s also a Poor Card expert in my family -- my mom. Her skillful silence got me a fancy set of bedding (pillow cases, cushions, sheets, the whole shebang) for 300 when the seller asked for 900.
“This Sucks”
This strategy works for people who can bring themselves to shamelessly nitpick. The buyers see something they like, try it on, decide it is a good thing, and then proceeds to disparage it. Disdainful body language is a helpful complement -- holding up the item with two fingers, shaking it, screwing up your face to say, “Look at this shoddy stitching” all work. Disdain quickly turns to glee when the seller gives up and hands you that piece of clothing you really didn’t want just half a minute ago.
The Cutesies
This occasionally works for pretty, young girls. You’d have to try the clothes on, look dazzlingly good, prance about the stall attracting other shoppers’ attention, and sweetly ask “Ayi” (auntie) or “Jie” (older sister) to please give you a discount. Shopkeepers are pretty immune to buyers’ tricks, but once in a while they soften to a pleading girl.
The Non-bargaining Bargain
This works surprisingly well for foreigners. Often you see big white men shrugging their shoulders with an “I don’t know what I’m doing” expression, smiling guiltily, tentatively saying “No, no, I can’t pay that much.” These buyers don’t know the rules, don’t know how much things should be, don’t know how to set their price…and it works! They’re blissfully and ignorantly playing the “how low will you go” patience game.
For every buyer bargaining style in the book there’s probably a dozen matching sells. Let’s take a look at how the merchants hold up their end of the bargain.
The Linguists
Walk down any crowded alley way at Silk Street and you’ll see foreign buyers delighted with the shopkeepers’ linguistic dexterity. These guys work hard for their money, learning how to say, “Your wife is beautiful!” and “You’re killing me with your prices” in English, French, German, Spanish, Japanese, Russian, just to name a few. The sight of so many vendors speaking so many languages to lure buyers may be the number one draw at the markets.
The Soft Sell
I learned about this first hand when Geoff and I were separated for a few brief minutes at Silk Street. When I found him again he had three salesgirls on his arms, tugging at his shirt, rubbing his biceps, pulling him into their stall. They don’t do this to couples but any time an unsupervised male shows up the shopkeepers pounce and show them what it means to “sa jiao.” (If you don’t know what this is, ask a friend who has dated a Chinese girl, or wait for a future posting!)
The Flatterers
White lies, even blatant lies, are rampant as sellers stroke buyers’ egos. “This dress could only work on a figure like yours! Bigger girls come by and I don’t even let them try it, I know it won’t fit.” If a piece is too big on you the vendors says, “It’s perfectly breezy for the summer.” If it’s too tight, “You don’t want to wear things loose and dowdy!” If you’re wondering about how a linen skirt will fare when the weather cools, vendors reply, “This is heavy linen, it’ll work well into the fall.” If it’s wool you’re fingering in the summer, they say, “This is good material, it’s seasonless.”
The Poor Card
Just as buyers cry poor, so do sellers. Shopkeepers love to mutter, “I tell you, I’m not making any money on this, I’m giving it to you at cost (or at a loss)!” as they start to wrap up your purchase. Right after a smile appears as he bids you adieu, and you know you might’ve asked for an even lower price.
“This Quality!”
Even though 99.9% of the goods in the big markets are made in shady factories somewhere down south (Dongguan?), that doesn’t stop the sellers from asking a high price for superior quality. Over the years I’ve heard, “This is imported.” “This is export quality.” “This is a famous Italian brand, Goocci.” “That’s a Nordic model, that’s why the sizes run big.” “This (fake) is better than the real thing.”
This last pitch threw me into some trouble at Silk Street this time. I found some North Face copies but balked when the sellers demanded RMB380 (~$55). I blurted, not as a bargaining tactic but out of pure surprise, “But a real North Face costs only $30 on sale at a US outlet.” This really didn’t sit well with the shopkeeper who insisted that his bags were made at the same factory as the real ones, with better materials.
After huffing and puffing at me for a while, the vendor resorted to the last bargaining ploy, The Dismissal. He waved me away with one hand, saying, “If you don’t have money to buy good quality why don’t you just go buy the real one.” This must be one for the ages, a fake goods peddler telling me that the real goods are cheaper!
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