Every day for the past three weeks, I've said good morning and good night to that fire at the rim of the Bird's Nest. I could always count on seeing the distant glowing light from my elevator lobby, when I left in the morning and when I came back at night. And every day, that flame sent me off to work fired up and welcomed me home with its warm embrace. Yesterday morning, it didn't.
That's a brief synopsis for the upcoming Korean drama, "Please, BOCOG, Give Me A Little More Time" (working title). In all seriousness, it's been fun being in Beijing for the Olympics and I feel a little empty seeing it come to an end. Not to mention the closing ceremony hardly provided the catharsis that I needed to reach closure. What happened to the grandiose theatrics that we've come to expect and crave? Contemporary song-and-dance routines - yes, even with Wang Leehom and Rain - are just grossly inadequate now that I know I could be ooh-aahing over thousands of men in color-changing spandex suits forming crazy shapes. Olympics, come back! I'll be waiting for you in my elevator lobby ... until I go to Shanghai tomorrow.
But don't fret, fire, you are still burning and will always burn in my heart. I can feel you. Unless that feeling is from the disgustingly greasy Peking duck I had. Please, no more Peking duck.
Tuesday, August 26, 2008
Sunday, August 24, 2008
WANGSTRUCK (that's what she said)
Just when I thought I need to start pulling entries out of a hat to fill this space, awesomeness in the form of a Wang came along and slapped me in the face.
WATCH:
Yes be jealous, I even shook his hand. Friend is friends with his assistant who snuck us backstage, and we had to feign disinterest to stay below the staff's radar. Hence the surreptitiously shot footage. Dear employers, here is the seedling of a great investigative journalist. Hire me please.
He gave his assistant a scowl when she introduced us as her friends, but was nice enough to make about 25 seconds of small talk. "Northwestern? Great school. Great music theater program. A lot of Greek life, right? Uh oh, gotta go."
Anyway, he's supposedly in town to perform at the closing ceremony tonight. Coca-Cola took the opportunity to stage a massive self-congratulatory PR orgy (appropriately with enormous big-screen graphics of Coke bottles spraying out clusters of balls - see below), and had him and Jacky Cheung sing two songs each.
Two thoughts after the event: there is no limit to the shamelessness (and consequent awesomeness) of corporate masturbation. And where can I get a Coke right now?
WATCH:
Yes be jealous, I even shook his hand. Friend is friends with his assistant who snuck us backstage, and we had to feign disinterest to stay below the staff's radar. Hence the surreptitiously shot footage. Dear employers, here is the seedling of a great investigative journalist. Hire me please.
He gave his assistant a scowl when she introduced us as her friends, but was nice enough to make about 25 seconds of small talk. "Northwestern? Great school. Great music theater program. A lot of Greek life, right? Uh oh, gotta go."
Anyway, he's supposedly in town to perform at the closing ceremony tonight. Coca-Cola took the opportunity to stage a massive self-congratulatory PR orgy (appropriately with enormous big-screen graphics of Coke bottles spraying out clusters of balls - see below), and had him and Jacky Cheung sing two songs each.
Two thoughts after the event: there is no limit to the shamelessness (and consequent awesomeness) of corporate masturbation. And where can I get a Coke right now?
Thursday, August 21, 2008
Owls, Team America (f. yeah), and the corporate promised land
A brief stretch of the routine life in a summer of travels. Wake up at 9:30; angrily give directions to clueless cab drivers; make like a paparazzi and ambush Aussie athletes. Three mildly interesting places I've been to lately:
Hooters
"We are hooters, hooters of Beijing..." Fake birthdays abounded.
USA House
U.S. athletes' "home away from home." Country club-like setting with multiple open bars, a Wii lounge, lakeview terraces, masseuses, uniformed waiters, floor-to-ceiling windows and a Team USA souvenir shop reminiscent of a college bookstore, with all prices indicated in U.S. dollars. Complete with an enormous wall-sized photo reprint of U.S. athletes marching in the opening ceremony in their Ralph Lauren. Proved that Americans can be just as analcratic as the Chinese when guards barred me from re-entering, twice, after I took several steps outside the premise to take photos of the building's exterior. Which I was made to delete. Fries with your elitism?
(Waiters set up something in front of said photo reprint; Team USA store)
Olympic Green
Enormous outdoor plaza just north of Bird's Nest. Hardly green. A veritable Disneyland of transnational corporations, in fact. Companies like Coca-Cola and Lenovo set up multimillion-dollar pavilions with interactive exhibits, visual marvels and plenty of photo-ops to let Olympics visitors "experience" their brands. Lights everywhere, music everywhere, lights that play music everywhere. Walmart-sized Olympics souvenir "Super Store" made me about 3,000RMB poorer (come on, limited edition pins? EBay!). Not overcrowded and unpleasant like other Chinese tourist sites because government only allows ticketholders to Olympics events or those with day passes doled out on an invitational basis.
Which brings me to my next story of how I bargained for a day pass onto the Green. I arrived at the gate at about 7:30 p.m., which is 30 minutes after the day pass is supposed to expire. I found a guy hawking one, and the following conversation ensued:
how much? 100. 20? 35 and you have a deal. come on that's only a 15rmb difference. 35 is final. (feign walk-away) fine, 25. okay but you're coming with me to the ticket entrance so i know i can still get in. trust me you can. (pumps chest) so just come with me, it's only a 2 minute walk. no no no. fine take it for 20. i'd rather give you the extra 5 for you to come with me. it's too far. how about 10rmb? that just tells me that i can't get in anymore. are you calling me a cheat? i swear on the lives of my two sons that you can still use the day pass. i will kill them with my own hands. okay i don't want you to kill your kids, i just want to get on the green. FINE just have it. what? really? remember my face because if you get in, next time you see me you have to call me uncle.
So that's the story of how I got a free day pass and a new uncle.
WATCH: ridiculous waterfall outside the GE pavilion
Crazy part starts at around :30. Hypnotized anyone who walked by. "Iiimmmaaagggiiinnnaaatttiiiooonnn...huan...ying..."
(Lenovo Showcase; Kodak/Coca-Cola pavilions; musical light pole; enormous McDonald's next to taiko-themed escalators; inside said McDonalds; Volkswagen monstrosity; sea of pins in Super Store)
Hooters
"We are hooters, hooters of Beijing..." Fake birthdays abounded.
USA House
U.S. athletes' "home away from home." Country club-like setting with multiple open bars, a Wii lounge, lakeview terraces, masseuses, uniformed waiters, floor-to-ceiling windows and a Team USA souvenir shop reminiscent of a college bookstore, with all prices indicated in U.S. dollars. Complete with an enormous wall-sized photo reprint of U.S. athletes marching in the opening ceremony in their Ralph Lauren. Proved that Americans can be just as analcratic as the Chinese when guards barred me from re-entering, twice, after I took several steps outside the premise to take photos of the building's exterior. Which I was made to delete. Fries with your elitism?
(Waiters set up something in front of said photo reprint; Team USA store)
Olympic Green
Enormous outdoor plaza just north of Bird's Nest. Hardly green. A veritable Disneyland of transnational corporations, in fact. Companies like Coca-Cola and Lenovo set up multimillion-dollar pavilions with interactive exhibits, visual marvels and plenty of photo-ops to let Olympics visitors "experience" their brands. Lights everywhere, music everywhere, lights that play music everywhere. Walmart-sized Olympics souvenir "Super Store" made me about 3,000RMB poorer (come on, limited edition pins? EBay!). Not overcrowded and unpleasant like other Chinese tourist sites because government only allows ticketholders to Olympics events or those with day passes doled out on an invitational basis.
Which brings me to my next story of how I bargained for a day pass onto the Green. I arrived at the gate at about 7:30 p.m., which is 30 minutes after the day pass is supposed to expire. I found a guy hawking one, and the following conversation ensued:
how much? 100. 20? 35 and you have a deal. come on that's only a 15rmb difference. 35 is final. (feign walk-away) fine, 25. okay but you're coming with me to the ticket entrance so i know i can still get in. trust me you can. (pumps chest) so just come with me, it's only a 2 minute walk. no no no. fine take it for 20. i'd rather give you the extra 5 for you to come with me. it's too far. how about 10rmb? that just tells me that i can't get in anymore. are you calling me a cheat? i swear on the lives of my two sons that you can still use the day pass. i will kill them with my own hands. okay i don't want you to kill your kids, i just want to get on the green. FINE just have it. what? really? remember my face because if you get in, next time you see me you have to call me uncle.
So that's the story of how I got a free day pass and a new uncle.
WATCH: ridiculous waterfall outside the GE pavilion
Crazy part starts at around :30. Hypnotized anyone who walked by. "Iiimmmaaagggiiinnnaaatttiiiooonnn...huan...ying..."
(Lenovo Showcase; Kodak/Coca-Cola pavilions; musical light pole; enormous McDonald's next to taiko-themed escalators; inside said McDonalds; Volkswagen monstrosity; sea of pins in Super Store)
Tuesday, August 19, 2008
Ball in Hand
I scored a cheap ticket to two handball games three days ago, and the first thing I have to say is: y'all look the same.
Here's Game 1, Croatia vs. Poland:
And here's Game 2, Denmark vs. Iceland:
A little hard to see, but notice that all of their uniforms are red and white, because all of their national colors are red and white: Croatia has red-and-white checkers, Poland has red-and-white stripes, and Denmark and Iceland have red crosses with white borders.
(Croatian fans, Norwegian fanchild)
And, here's a run-down of the players' names:
Denmark: Knudsen, Boldsen, Hansen, Jensen, Boesen, Joergensen, Christiansen, Henriksen, Nielsen
Iceland: Petersson, Sigurdsson, Gustavsson, Gunnarsson, Hallgrimsson, Gudmundsson, Gudjonsson, Atlasson, Sigurdsson (again), Jakobsson, Giersson, Stefansson, Ingimundarsson, Asgeirsson
So the main obstacles for us clueless Chinese peoeple sitting among a sea of red and white were 1) figuring out which freakin' team is which, and which team the audience is cheering for, and 2) telling one sson from another sen.
The game itself was interesting. I showed up about 30 minutes prior and shadily walked up to every person standing around to ask for tickets. Some white guy tried to scalp me for 300RMB a pop, but I held out and lo and behold, a nice Chinese guy came with extra ones and sold me one for 50RMB. My new full-fledged membership in the Chinese society continues to pay unexpected dividends.
It's a funny mix of soccer, basketball and dodgeball, and at first it's ridiculous how intense the players are. Essentially it's soccer played with hands. Players have to dribble once for every three steps they take with the ball, and they must shoot from a specific distance or farther, designated by an arc that looks like a three-point line. The court is basketball-sized, which makes the pace similar to an NBA game. Passes and shots are dodgeball-like, taken with one-handed overhead throws. The ball is easily palmed.
It's easy to get into, even if you don't know the rules, because it's so simple. Players get physical around the arc, where the shooter has to find an opening, jump above the defenders and put his entire body into throwing. Passwork around the perimeter is fast, and there's little dribbling except when the ball is being moved across court or when the player is posting on or trying to get around the defenders. I was thoroughly entertained for a good two hours, which, for an infrequent sportswatcher, says a lot.
The one thing that stayed as ridiculous the fifth time as it was the first time was the penalty shot. The shooter stands about 8 feet from the goalie. Because it's so close, the goalie is forced into a kung-fu-like stance, with all of his limbs stretched out and moving, including one of his legs. The shooter feigns a few attempts, and generally makes the shot, which compounds humiliation on the goalie, as if the flying crane stance and the fact that he plays handball for a living wasn't enough.
Despite it being the Olympics, the atmosphere was essentially like an ordinary sporting event. Beer flowed freely (a months-old baby next to me sipped on Tsingtao - see below), hot dogs sold liberally (albeit the pigs-in-a-blanket type found only in Asian bakeries) and fans cheered loudly, especially the Danes behind me that had one of three things to say: "Ayyy!", "YAH!," or "Ayayayayay, YAH!"
All in all a worthwhile time for 50RMB, especially now that I have a ticket stub to keep. But if I were the handball PR, I would be working a little harder, first by changing the name of the sport from something that can be easily confused with an elementary school game played against a wall, and then probably also swapping out the big swirling soccer ball in the big-screen "GOAL!" graphics:
Here's Game 1, Croatia vs. Poland:
And here's Game 2, Denmark vs. Iceland:
A little hard to see, but notice that all of their uniforms are red and white, because all of their national colors are red and white: Croatia has red-and-white checkers, Poland has red-and-white stripes, and Denmark and Iceland have red crosses with white borders.
(Croatian fans, Norwegian fanchild)
And, here's a run-down of the players' names:
Denmark: Knudsen, Boldsen, Hansen, Jensen, Boesen, Joergensen, Christiansen, Henriksen, Nielsen
Iceland: Petersson, Sigurdsson, Gustavsson, Gunnarsson, Hallgrimsson, Gudmundsson, Gudjonsson, Atlasson, Sigurdsson (again), Jakobsson, Giersson, Stefansson, Ingimundarsson, Asgeirsson
So the main obstacles for us clueless Chinese peoeple sitting among a sea of red and white were 1) figuring out which freakin' team is which, and which team the audience is cheering for, and 2) telling one sson from another sen.
The game itself was interesting. I showed up about 30 minutes prior and shadily walked up to every person standing around to ask for tickets. Some white guy tried to scalp me for 300RMB a pop, but I held out and lo and behold, a nice Chinese guy came with extra ones and sold me one for 50RMB. My new full-fledged membership in the Chinese society continues to pay unexpected dividends.
It's a funny mix of soccer, basketball and dodgeball, and at first it's ridiculous how intense the players are. Essentially it's soccer played with hands. Players have to dribble once for every three steps they take with the ball, and they must shoot from a specific distance or farther, designated by an arc that looks like a three-point line. The court is basketball-sized, which makes the pace similar to an NBA game. Passes and shots are dodgeball-like, taken with one-handed overhead throws. The ball is easily palmed.
It's easy to get into, even if you don't know the rules, because it's so simple. Players get physical around the arc, where the shooter has to find an opening, jump above the defenders and put his entire body into throwing. Passwork around the perimeter is fast, and there's little dribbling except when the ball is being moved across court or when the player is posting on or trying to get around the defenders. I was thoroughly entertained for a good two hours, which, for an infrequent sportswatcher, says a lot.
The one thing that stayed as ridiculous the fifth time as it was the first time was the penalty shot. The shooter stands about 8 feet from the goalie. Because it's so close, the goalie is forced into a kung-fu-like stance, with all of his limbs stretched out and moving, including one of his legs. The shooter feigns a few attempts, and generally makes the shot, which compounds humiliation on the goalie, as if the flying crane stance and the fact that he plays handball for a living wasn't enough.
Despite it being the Olympics, the atmosphere was essentially like an ordinary sporting event. Beer flowed freely (a months-old baby next to me sipped on Tsingtao - see below), hot dogs sold liberally (albeit the pigs-in-a-blanket type found only in Asian bakeries) and fans cheered loudly, especially the Danes behind me that had one of three things to say: "Ayyy!", "YAH!," or "Ayayayayay, YAH!"
All in all a worthwhile time for 50RMB, especially now that I have a ticket stub to keep. But if I were the handball PR, I would be working a little harder, first by changing the name of the sport from something that can be easily confused with an elementary school game played against a wall, and then probably also swapping out the big swirling soccer ball in the big-screen "GOAL!" graphics:
Monday, August 18, 2008
PHELPSTRUCK! And then struck again
I encountered greatness, and I don't mean I looked in the mirror.
WATCH:
Watch again:
First one was at a Speedo party last night for all of the sponsored Olympic swimmers. I couldn't recognize any besides Ian Thorpe, Ryan Lochte and Dara Torres, but I'm pretty sure I was within feet of most big-timers. I'm also pretty sure Ian Thorpe, who didn't even compete this time, just came to get laid, because he came alone and left 20 minutes later not-so-alone (see below). We camped out for six hours outside the club until Michael Phelps made a late appearance at around 11:30 p.m. and refused to speak to the media. Apparently LeBron, Kobe and the rest of the U.S. basketball team came too, but they went through the back door. So close. Security was intense. I actually heard one security guard say to another, "If you see any Xinjiang types, just drag them away. Don't hesitate." Not surprising, but still pretty shocking when you hear it articulated.
(Drunk girl gets Thorpedoed, Mama Phelps)
Second one was at the post-events press conference just now. I wanted to ask him a question so I can say that Michael Phelps knows I exist, but precious time was lost on reporter-turned-comedians asking deep questions like "What is your definition of love?" and "I was just wondering, and I am sure your fans would also like to know, heh, what is your opinion on the debate about light being a particle and not a wave? Heh heh, what do you reckon?" To his PR team's credit, most answers ended up being about how much he loves his mother and how much orgasmic disbelief he's in.
BONUS REEL: Phelps answers a question about his future plans, looking toward London 2012
EDIT: I've been informed that the douchy guy I witnessed is indeed Grant Hackett. Bad information from another passer-by. My bad.
WATCH:
Watch again:
First one was at a Speedo party last night for all of the sponsored Olympic swimmers. I couldn't recognize any besides Ian Thorpe, Ryan Lochte and Dara Torres, but I'm pretty sure I was within feet of most big-timers. I'm also pretty sure Ian Thorpe, who didn't even compete this time, just came to get laid, because he came alone and left 20 minutes later not-so-alone (see below). We camped out for six hours outside the club until Michael Phelps made a late appearance at around 11:30 p.m. and refused to speak to the media. Apparently LeBron, Kobe and the rest of the U.S. basketball team came too, but they went through the back door. So close. Security was intense. I actually heard one security guard say to another, "If you see any Xinjiang types, just drag them away. Don't hesitate." Not surprising, but still pretty shocking when you hear it articulated.
(Drunk girl gets Thorpedoed, Mama Phelps)
Second one was at the post-events press conference just now. I wanted to ask him a question so I can say that Michael Phelps knows I exist, but precious time was lost on reporter-turned-comedians asking deep questions like "What is your definition of love?" and "I was just wondering, and I am sure your fans would also like to know, heh, what is your opinion on the debate about light being a particle and not a wave? Heh heh, what do you reckon?" To his PR team's credit, most answers ended up being about how much he loves his mother and how much orgasmic disbelief he's in.
BONUS REEL: Phelps answers a question about his future plans, looking toward London 2012
EDIT: I've been informed that the douchy guy I witnessed is indeed Grant Hackett. Bad information from another passer-by. My bad.
Friday, August 15, 2008
The huikou and the fury
It feels good to be on the other side.
For the past month and a half that I've been traveling through China, I've been a pseudo-foreigner. Pseudo-foreigner treatment, pseudo-foreigner topics of conversation, pseudo-foreigner prices. Yesterday, I was finally inducted as a full member of the Chinese society.
How? A little magical thing called the huikou. During a few hours of downtime, my white co-workers decided to go shopping at the biggest electronics market in town, and I tagged along as a translator. We were checking out cameras, looking around and asking for prices. When we walked into a booth and one of the white guys pointed at an HD camcorder he wanted, the salesperson turned to me and asked me if I was the translator. I said yes. He then asked me:
"Do you want huikou?"
I didn't understand. I've heard of the word before, but only in news reports about corrupt politicians. I asked him what he meant.
"You know, huikou." He was confused that I didn't know. I still didn't. He got annoyed.
"He pays us. We give you some."
All kinds of bells (and dollar signs) went in my head. KICKBACK! I can get some? This blew my mind. All those times we took miserable bus tours, we seethed helplessly with suspicions about the guides who "negotiated" our ticket prices and made us go to jade factories. Now, I was the one to be suspicious of. Spectacular.
I duly said no, but I didn't tell them what the salesperson said either. Now that I've been inducted, I reserve the right to kick around some Maos. I'm pretty sure that one's in the Chinese Bill of Rights.
For the past month and a half that I've been traveling through China, I've been a pseudo-foreigner. Pseudo-foreigner treatment, pseudo-foreigner topics of conversation, pseudo-foreigner prices. Yesterday, I was finally inducted as a full member of the Chinese society.
How? A little magical thing called the huikou. During a few hours of downtime, my white co-workers decided to go shopping at the biggest electronics market in town, and I tagged along as a translator. We were checking out cameras, looking around and asking for prices. When we walked into a booth and one of the white guys pointed at an HD camcorder he wanted, the salesperson turned to me and asked me if I was the translator. I said yes. He then asked me:
"Do you want huikou?"
I didn't understand. I've heard of the word before, but only in news reports about corrupt politicians. I asked him what he meant.
"You know, huikou." He was confused that I didn't know. I still didn't. He got annoyed.
"He pays us. We give you some."
All kinds of bells (and dollar signs) went in my head. KICKBACK! I can get some? This blew my mind. All those times we took miserable bus tours, we seethed helplessly with suspicions about the guides who "negotiated" our ticket prices and made us go to jade factories. Now, I was the one to be suspicious of. Spectacular.
I duly said no, but I didn't tell them what the salesperson said either. Now that I've been inducted, I reserve the right to kick around some Maos. I'm pretty sure that one's in the Chinese Bill of Rights.
Thursday, August 14, 2008
I TOUCHED A GOLD MEDAL
This guy's. It's heavier than it looks, and a piece of doughnut-shaped jade is embedded on the back. He came to our newsroom for a live interview, and we chatted with him while he waited. One intern couldn't contain herself and yelled "LET'S SEE THE GOODS!!!" as he walked in. He was a good sport and took it out for us to touch. I wanted to ask for pictures but my professionalism prevented me. I'm a professional, damn it.
I've been transferred to a partner network, and so far it's been a lot more interesting - chasing athletes, going to press conferences and such. The first time we were in the field, I was alone with a photographer and I was going to be the one holding the microphone and interviewing the Australian gold medalist. Alas, the athlete never came to the gate we were camped at.
Later, we went to a press conference of an Aussie cyclist who was going to speak out about Tibet. When a reporter asked him about it he said "I think I'll wait until I go home first." Pansy.
I've been transferred to a partner network, and so far it's been a lot more interesting - chasing athletes, going to press conferences and such. The first time we were in the field, I was alone with a photographer and I was going to be the one holding the microphone and interviewing the Australian gold medalist. Alas, the athlete never came to the gate we were camped at.
Later, we went to a press conference of an Aussie cyclist who was going to speak out about Tibet. When a reporter asked him about it he said "I think I'll wait until I go home first." Pansy.
Tuesday, August 12, 2008
Law of Association
I'm turning into a local. I spit on the street, I hang out in smoky Internet cafes all day, and nasty bathrooms don't bother me nearly as much as they should. In a few more weeks, I may start lifting my shirt in public and fanning my belly.
In other news, Beijing is basically back to late-July routineness after the climactic opening ceremony. Except for areas immediately adjacent to the Bird's Nest and events that use public roads as venues (marathon and cycling), the ominous cordons are gone. Considering the craziness of the anticipation that led up to 08/08/08, it's pleasantly surprising how little people here actually care for the Olympics. If you came to the city not knowing that the Games have already started, it could take you a while to find out.
In other news, Beijing is basically back to late-July routineness after the climactic opening ceremony. Except for areas immediately adjacent to the Bird's Nest and events that use public roads as venues (marathon and cycling), the ominous cordons are gone. Considering the craziness of the anticipation that led up to 08/08/08, it's pleasantly surprising how little people here actually care for the Olympics. If you came to the city not knowing that the Games have already started, it could take you a while to find out.
Sunday, August 10, 2008
"We've waited a hundred years"
Between Guinea-Bissau and Sierra-Leone, the thousand-strong crowd that had gathered at the big screen in front of the Workers' Stadium found other ways to entertain themselves. A lone Fijian cheered loudly when her fellow islanders made their entrance. A few unsuspecting Chinese onlookers lost their freak-dancing virginity to a group of Madagascarians getting all up on each other. A pair of Australians yelled "Aodaliya! Aodaliya!", proving that any language can be spoken with an Aussie accent. The rest of the crowd just fanned their exposed bellies and drank.
When Morocco came out, the bright red flag threw the crowd into a false start. A few people started to chant, awaking the rest of the mob from the lull. Close enough - Zimbabwe and Australia later, the Big Yao walked in with the real red flag.
I knew that the passion of the mob can be as ugly as it is beautiful, but it was hard not to be swept up in the moment. Critics lament that China killed the spirit of the Olympics when it decided to use the Games as a political tool. Yes, China did plant a laundry list of if-then statements in the minds of its people: if China succeeds in hosting the Olympics, then it will have finally shed the Third World label. If China can wow the world with its spectacles and athletic prowess, then it will have been the culmination, the cherry on the top of two decades of miraculous socioeconomic growth. If China can put on a good face for the world, it will have fully recovered its long-lost glory. But the International Olympics Committee already knew that was going to be the narrative when it decided to give the bid, for the first time ever, to a nation that's not considered fully Westernized. And the Chinese people needed no coaxing to buy the story. The joy I felt around me at the Workers Stadium was raw, intense and genuine. So here's another if-then: if the Olympics has the power to lift a nation of 1.3 billion people out of a century-long inferiority complex and let them stand tall again, then haven't the Games achieved their purpose?
A few minutes later, I witnessed the answer: it's not that simple. In the midst of the "Let's Go China" chant, a drunk white guy walked up to the front row of the huddle and started saying, "Let's Go Xinjiang" and "Let's Go Tibet." In a matter of seconds, I saw the mood change distinctly from awkward confusion to simmering anger. Smiles disappeared, flags drooped, and the more gung-ho chanters started yelling at him. Fortunately, a swarm of security guards came right away to escort him out. But there was a lesson: the Olympics-inspired fervor isn't just an expression of solidarity, but also insecurity. Because the if-then statements are based on such precarious grounds, anything that questions or dampens them is an an insult and worse, a threat. The bubble of hard-earned pride can only survive with exclusion and suppression.
As a Chinese person, I couldn't stand untouched by the mob. I think of my grandparents, who only two generations ago had to live through one of the worst humiliations in Chinese history, and know that I'm lucky to be witnessing this only half a century later. And the things I saw that night will stay with me for a long time to come - a woman quietly waving a Chinese flag larger than her body in front of the TV in her living room; foreigners in Communist Party regalia chanting alongside the Chinese, having no idea what the moment means to us. Nevertheless, it's useful to be vigilant of the dark side of such volatile emotions. It would prove the critics right if we let that squander the Olympic good will.
When Morocco came out, the bright red flag threw the crowd into a false start. A few people started to chant, awaking the rest of the mob from the lull. Close enough - Zimbabwe and Australia later, the Big Yao walked in with the real red flag.
I knew that the passion of the mob can be as ugly as it is beautiful, but it was hard not to be swept up in the moment. Critics lament that China killed the spirit of the Olympics when it decided to use the Games as a political tool. Yes, China did plant a laundry list of if-then statements in the minds of its people: if China succeeds in hosting the Olympics, then it will have finally shed the Third World label. If China can wow the world with its spectacles and athletic prowess, then it will have been the culmination, the cherry on the top of two decades of miraculous socioeconomic growth. If China can put on a good face for the world, it will have fully recovered its long-lost glory. But the International Olympics Committee already knew that was going to be the narrative when it decided to give the bid, for the first time ever, to a nation that's not considered fully Westernized. And the Chinese people needed no coaxing to buy the story. The joy I felt around me at the Workers Stadium was raw, intense and genuine. So here's another if-then: if the Olympics has the power to lift a nation of 1.3 billion people out of a century-long inferiority complex and let them stand tall again, then haven't the Games achieved their purpose?
A few minutes later, I witnessed the answer: it's not that simple. In the midst of the "Let's Go China" chant, a drunk white guy walked up to the front row of the huddle and started saying, "Let's Go Xinjiang" and "Let's Go Tibet." In a matter of seconds, I saw the mood change distinctly from awkward confusion to simmering anger. Smiles disappeared, flags drooped, and the more gung-ho chanters started yelling at him. Fortunately, a swarm of security guards came right away to escort him out. But there was a lesson: the Olympics-inspired fervor isn't just an expression of solidarity, but also insecurity. Because the if-then statements are based on such precarious grounds, anything that questions or dampens them is an an insult and worse, a threat. The bubble of hard-earned pride can only survive with exclusion and suppression.
As a Chinese person, I couldn't stand untouched by the mob. I think of my grandparents, who only two generations ago had to live through one of the worst humiliations in Chinese history, and know that I'm lucky to be witnessing this only half a century later. And the things I saw that night will stay with me for a long time to come - a woman quietly waving a Chinese flag larger than her body in front of the TV in her living room; foreigners in Communist Party regalia chanting alongside the Chinese, having no idea what the moment means to us. Nevertheless, it's useful to be vigilant of the dark side of such volatile emotions. It would prove the critics right if we let that squander the Olympic good will.
Friday, August 8, 2008
100 hear not equal to one see
Tiananmen Square, night of 8/6
Second-to-last shot: yellow people swarm talking white beard
Last shot: Flag vendor gets busted
Less than 24 hours! Too bad I am now an office bitch and can't go out to see the craziness.
Wednesday, August 6, 2008
Lockdown
A half-dozen choppers whirr overhead. Police at every highway entrance. Security guards outside every hotel logging names and ID numbers. Cab drivers insist angrily that science will foil the predicted thunderstorm's plot to steal the opening ceremony and thus shame China. "They've got technology. They'll blow the clouds out of the sky!" Internet cafe plays "Beijing Welcomes You" ad nauseam.
T-2
Beijing huan ying niii
I feel it in my fingers, I feel it in my toes
Helicopters all around me, and so the feeling grows
(8/6)
Cue armies of the undead. Eeghhhaaghhhh
(8/4, though today basically looks the same)
One nest Chinese people finally won't try to eat
(8/6)
T-2
Beijing huan ying niii
I feel it in my fingers, I feel it in my toes
Helicopters all around me, and so the feeling grows
(8/6)
Cue armies of the undead. Eeghhhaaghhhh
(8/4, though today basically looks the same)
One nest Chinese people finally won't try to eat
(8/6)
Saturday, August 2, 2008
Is Beijing ready?
It would be unnecessarily harsh to say no. China did put up twiggy and bubbly awesomenesses with more than enough time to spare, unlike Athens' exercise in procrastination four years ago. It's impossible to be looking in any one direction on any street in Beijing and not see something about the Olympics, whether it's enormous banners of the half-dozen slogans hung from bridges, sponsor ads plastered on public transportation, or flags strapped to any and all objects that are tall and slim.
That said, the city's not nearly as ready as it would like to be. For one, there's the smog. When I was here in early July, the sky was almost always gray and there were days when we couldn't see one block down. When I got back yesterday, the sky was still gray, and the sun was a post-apocalyptic orange circle. This is after the government closed down hundreds of factories and halved the number of cars on the street.
Then there's the service industry, or lack thereof, which brings me to the subject of traveler's checks. First of all, no one has ever seen them, including the bank tellers and their supervisors. Here's how it goes: I walk into a bank. I hand my traveler's checks and passport to the teller. She studies them for about a minute, flipping them over multiple times and pulling them about two inches to her face to read the English on it. Then, she calls over the teller next to her, and hands her one of the checks. They study them together, and exchange bug-eyed grins of confusion. At this point, the roaming supervisor usually notices. If not, one of the tellers will call for him over the intercom or the PA, which of course catches all the other tellers' attention. Now there are three to four people standing across the glass from me, which creates a snowball effect of more and more rubbernecking staff joining the group. They start shuffling through their notes. One takes out her notebook, probably from that last training on Scenario: Foreigner. One might smile at me and apologize. After five to ten minutes of highlighting notes, frantic discussions and barked instructions, the crowd starts to disperse and the teller starts working. All is well, right? Wrong. Teller summons supervisor again. More examining and conferring. Teller then hands one check back to me. "The angle on the swooping part of the J is different in the bottom signature than in the top. Can you re-sign it?" Yes. "Now the loop is too big." Re-sign two to four more times. More discussions, which now makes me nervous. 30 minutes later, I finally have my money.
Sadly, that's the best-case scenario, for which I have to seek out established branches of the Bank of China. At the Construction Bank of China, one of the other big ones, I decided to abort after the group discussion led the supervisor to take out a printed packet of PowerPoint slides and start reading out loud. It's also not a one-time incident, since it happened all four times I exchanged money.
The same kind of bureaucracy and indifference is everywhere. At an Internet cafe, when I handed my U.S. passport to the clerk, he asked for my Chinese ID, which I obviously don't have if I'm an American citizen. When I tell him that I've been using my passport at other Internet places, he gets annoyed and tells me that the government instructions are that they just need identification in "card form."
It's not surprising in the least that the rest of China is like this, but Beijing '08 was supposed to be better. It isn't. To its credit, the Chinese government has put the channels of propaganda to good use to change that aspect of the culture. But Beijing is still not ready to put on the face of the civilized, cosmopolitan city that it wants to be. If I already have this much trouble, and I look Chinese and speak Chinese, how is a blond-haired, blue-eyed person going to fare?
That said, the city's not nearly as ready as it would like to be. For one, there's the smog. When I was here in early July, the sky was almost always gray and there were days when we couldn't see one block down. When I got back yesterday, the sky was still gray, and the sun was a post-apocalyptic orange circle. This is after the government closed down hundreds of factories and halved the number of cars on the street.
Then there's the service industry, or lack thereof, which brings me to the subject of traveler's checks. First of all, no one has ever seen them, including the bank tellers and their supervisors. Here's how it goes: I walk into a bank. I hand my traveler's checks and passport to the teller. She studies them for about a minute, flipping them over multiple times and pulling them about two inches to her face to read the English on it. Then, she calls over the teller next to her, and hands her one of the checks. They study them together, and exchange bug-eyed grins of confusion. At this point, the roaming supervisor usually notices. If not, one of the tellers will call for him over the intercom or the PA, which of course catches all the other tellers' attention. Now there are three to four people standing across the glass from me, which creates a snowball effect of more and more rubbernecking staff joining the group. They start shuffling through their notes. One takes out her notebook, probably from that last training on Scenario: Foreigner. One might smile at me and apologize. After five to ten minutes of highlighting notes, frantic discussions and barked instructions, the crowd starts to disperse and the teller starts working. All is well, right? Wrong. Teller summons supervisor again. More examining and conferring. Teller then hands one check back to me. "The angle on the swooping part of the J is different in the bottom signature than in the top. Can you re-sign it?" Yes. "Now the loop is too big." Re-sign two to four more times. More discussions, which now makes me nervous. 30 minutes later, I finally have my money.
Sadly, that's the best-case scenario, for which I have to seek out established branches of the Bank of China. At the Construction Bank of China, one of the other big ones, I decided to abort after the group discussion led the supervisor to take out a printed packet of PowerPoint slides and start reading out loud. It's also not a one-time incident, since it happened all four times I exchanged money.
The same kind of bureaucracy and indifference is everywhere. At an Internet cafe, when I handed my U.S. passport to the clerk, he asked for my Chinese ID, which I obviously don't have if I'm an American citizen. When I tell him that I've been using my passport at other Internet places, he gets annoyed and tells me that the government instructions are that they just need identification in "card form."
It's not surprising in the least that the rest of China is like this, but Beijing '08 was supposed to be better. It isn't. To its credit, the Chinese government has put the channels of propaganda to good use to change that aspect of the culture. But Beijing is still not ready to put on the face of the civilized, cosmopolitan city that it wants to be. If I already have this much trouble, and I look Chinese and speak Chinese, how is a blond-haired, blue-eyed person going to fare?
Subscribe to:
Posts (Atom)