The anomaly of the cotton wet grey sky does not match the desiccated grit that dusts everything with its dull chalk patina. The lack of sun has nothing to do with saturated clouds of moisture, but from the hydrocarbon exhalation of a country that “makes things.” We in the west pride ourselves of having cleaned up the environment in our country, but the truth of matter is that the two faced genie of manufacture has simply been moved not just to another part town, but beyond our borders as well. Just as it did for us, manufacturing creates wealth and it would appear it continues to do so in its age old way– by chewing through the environment. China Inc’s factories spew out the same sky consuming waste that in the past used to turn London coal black, and made the steel belt rivers of America run technicolor.
In the US we see shuttered building projects and declining infrastructure, as most of America has put itself on hold when it comes to expansion. It is different here, where the breakneck pace of economic development, change and growth feels every bit as foreign as the differences that naturally come from a mismatch of cultural quirks. China changes fast, and its imperial capitol reflects it with an ever increasing spider web of modern subways, stretched Hummer’s (the brand is now owned by the Chinese) and a crazy quilt of foreign tongues as everyone from the rural peasant to the Western business man, to the African merchant all seek to bite off a bit of China’s economic land grab.
Prices are inflating in a dizzying spiral and it brings with it changes in outlook and attitude. Where there used to be hard bargaining, now is often heard “take it or leave it.” Flagging down a cab and getting them to stop still may or may not get you to your destination. I’ve heard the odd hours excuse of “I’m getting off work now”– that actually translates into I don’t want to go to that part of town. And while there still are men who light up their cigarettes under the “no smoking” signs in restaurants, they don’t seem to quite a plentiful as before. It just might be that there is a tidal shift in tobacco use.
To what are now my American mid-west tuned sensibilities, Beijing feels like an assault. But, I know that is the temporary byproduct of retuning my Chinese 360° sense of perception and the weary edge of jetlag. The “rules” of traffic as we know them are taken here simply as recommendations. And in reality have very little to do with how feet and wheels, motors and pedals, flow and restriction all play together to move people and vehicles through a seemingly impossibly narrow space. It will take a few more days to settle in the slow motion school of fish flow that governs how traffic moves in a world where the luxury of space is unknown.
In the section of town I temporarily call home there is graffiti everywhere. I can not remember seeing it on previous visits. But, it is also brighter at night with a new flush of shops and night markets that run on the fatter wallets of Beijing’s well lubed economy. The narrow hutongs with their low wattage corners of commerce, the fruit stands and daily goods shops have given way to guitar bars, trendy Thai restaurants, laid-back coffeehouses, hand crafted goods and stylishly cut clothes. The echos of “old Beijing”– the cigarette smoking old men surrounded with a mountain of spent sunflower seed hulls and an army of 3 kuai bottles of Yanjing beer as they play Chinese chess look like ghosts from another time, as the culture of commerce and “ke ai” (cuteness) overtake their old dusty alley with cupcakes, Tibetan scarves and tattoo parlors.
In the west our construction projects are well ordered affairs with OSHA enforced safety measures that wrap construction sites up like a helicopter parent’s prodigy learning to ride a bicycle. In Beijing they more resemble children who track mud all over the place, as the boundaries of creation and destruction merge one into the other, and the ever flowing stream of bicycles, cars and feet simply parts and flows water-like around any momentarily obstruction. Massive diesel spewing dump trucks offloading dirt from an excavation site share the sidewalk with the lively crowd out to enjoy one of the last few comfortable nights before winter drags the bitter cold winds down off the Mongolian Steppes.
It is very difficult to separate creation from destruction. Perhaps this is what it looks like when a dragon sheds its skin.
The synchronic adjustment between time zones is only one part of the shifting required when settling into a time zone that crosses oceans, languages and customs. Certainly, there is the internal clock of sleep and digestion that finds itself unhinged from the accustomed cycles of dark and light. But, additionally there are the habits of space and movement. How a street gets crossed. What distance is close enough, and the meaning implicate in the volume of one’s voice.
