More updates from China

Peking Roast Duck
We went for Peking Roast Duck yesterday, at an eatery reputed to be one of the more traditional ones. It's interior seemed new and well lit though, with large glass viewing room placed prominently near the entrance. In that room, chefs were slicing up roast ducks with nimble strokes, carving the meat and crisp red-gold skin (not to mention the adhering fat) into thin slivers, which were then arrayed on a plate. The duck had been roasted in such a manner sch that its skin was stiff and stood away from the flesh like a casing of armour. The flashing knives were sharp and the chefs' hands were deft, such that a whole duck was stripped of its meat within five minutes, and the bony carcass discarded in favour of new one.

Next the plates of duck were served up, complete with sweet sauce and dough skins. We were supposed to place the duck slivers and some leek slivers onto the skins, top with some sweet sauce, and make a tidy little roll before eating it. I bit into one of the slivers of crisp duck skin, and was surprised -- at its lack of taste and extraordinary oiliness. The roasting proces had crisped the skin, but unfortunately left the subcutaneous fat more or less intact, the better to ease the passage of the meat down your gullet I suppose. They forgot to add the salt too, although it could also have been left out on purpose, I don't know. The sweet sauce did improve the overall taste of the duck considerably when added to the roll, though. It was a novelty, and now I can say that I have eaten the most traditional of traditional Peking Ducks, but really, it's not so great as to merit being brought back as a souvenir.

Carrefour in China
Carrefour stores in Malaysia and Singapore have always been those brilliant, airy places, with sparkling floors that one could almost eat off, cheap, cheap goods and an array of shiny checkout counters complete with a battalion of cashiers. Now the one in China was somewhat less impressive. It was brilliant, it was airy and had its battalion of cashiers, but the queues were so long as to smack of inefficient checkout systems. The floor was cheap tile, broken in some places, and the toilets(!) -- were as those common China toilets, seemingly built as an afterthought and negligently maintained. Nevertheless, it was still interesting to see the goods that were offered there. I was particularly fascinated by the smelly assortment of cooked animal parts at the meat counters. To be sure, this was not a sight to be found in a Carrefour anywhere else in the world: mounds of pig heads cooked in soy sauce or wrapped in some black substance, beef tendons cut and uncut, sausages long and short, some thin as licorice sticks some as plump as bananas, all manner of muscle meat and offal from chicken, pig or cow, cooked in a variety of sauces and cut to different sizes. The assortment of live fish was equally impressive, complete with creatures I didn't even know were edible, creatures that crawled, swam or wriggled. Truly the Chinese are a people that eat most parts of most things that move, and a few more that don't. (In case some of you might be interested to know, pig scalp was served for lunch today, finely sliced and drizzled with chili oil. It was delicately crisp and cartilagenous. I am simply embracing the practices of the Chinese culture, after all. No, I haven't tried dog. Yet.)

Beautiful Tiananmen
After dinner we went for a stroll in the area around Tiananmen. It was an area where important political monuments were situated, including Mao's memorial and the Beijing Olympics Committee, situated around a large rectangular area paved from end to end with a dark stone. People were strolling in groups and vendors were trying to sell kites to them. In the falling dusk, lights were turned on all along the outlines of the building, so that when the building itself was no longer visible in the dark, a glowing outline remained. We all busied ourselves with shooting photographs.

Forbidden Palace

At the close of our third day, I am again seated comfortably on the couch trying to impose some order on a kaleidoscope of memories as I type out this blogpost.

The undisputed highlight of the day was the time spent touring the vast grounds of the Forbidden City. The thought that those royal feet which we have previously only heard about have actually trodden on those yet unrestored paving stones, that palace concubines actually lived and died tragically within some of those very rooms, that empresses engaged in intrigue and struggles for power within those very halls, makes me feel reverent as I think about those people and the suffering they underwent, or the love they showed, or the force of will that drove them, to good or to evil. I look at the furnishings in some of the halls, retained in the arrangement of those bygone days, and I think of the women that once lived amongst those delicate porcelain and jade items, who might have been the beloved of the most powerful man 'beneath the heavens', who might have schemed dark plots to do away with a rival for the king’s favour, or who might have lived out day after day of cloistered existence waiting for the day when she would find favour in the emperor’s eyes. The grounds evoke a swirling vortex of love and hate, good and evil, and everything else in between. Today I was told the stories of some of them, but undoubtedly many more remain untold.

Love

There was this Qing emperor who loved his empress so much that when she died he kept her things reserved in her room and decreed that no one should use those rooms except as a memorial to her. On festive days, my audiophone travel guide informs me, a portrait of this empress would be taken out and hung on the wall of those chambers. Every bereaved, loving husband could mourn deeply the loss of a wife, but no one creates such a stir doing so quite like the emperor himself.

The last emperor Puyi apparently loved his empress dearly too, a bride he espoused when only 17. She was fond of playing on swings, and two metal rings were fastened on the ceiling in one of the empress' chambers for her to attach a swing to. A photograph of Puyi's young empress in full regalia was put on display in one of the chambers, complete with other pictures and memorabilia of the last emperor’s life. She was a delicate young woman then, with thoughtful eyes that were modestly downcast. I figured that it would have been taken shortly after the royal marriage. A shy, thoughtful, childlike bride would have suited, even appealed to the tastes of the bookish, somewhat timid Puyi, who must be accustomed all his life to overbearing domineering women, after being the third young emperor his grand aunt the Dowager Empress Cixi placed on the throne. But little was that young empress to know at the time that picture was taken, that not only was her husband never to grow into his full strength as emperor of China, but their idyllic, cloistered, married life was soon to be shattered by the invasion of the capital and Puyi's ensuing exile. Oh, the cruel, cruel dictates of fate!

Another embodiment of love is the filial piety shown by the Emperor QianLong towards his grandfather, the Emperor KangXi, whose august reign lasted a full 60 years. The Emperor QianLong, in order to honour his grandfather, swore to abdicate when he reached the 60^th year of his reign, so as not to outshine his grandfather's as the longest reigning emperor in Qing history. This vow he faithfully kept, giving up the throne to his son XianFeng at the appointed time.

Hate

Jealousy and strife is rife in the palace grounds as officials and concubines strive for the favour of the one person who really matters: the Emperor himself. There is a well in the far eastern corner of the palace grounds, which is one of those places as isolated and remote as a royal lady would have liked to see her bitterest rival confined in. It is named the 'Zhen Fei Well', after the royal concubine of Emperor GuangXu who was deliberately pushed into it to her death, upon the orders of the Empress Dowager Cixi. Zhen Fei, a favourite concubine of the Emperor had been confined there after conspiring with the Emperor in a failed coup against Cixi, to wrest from her the reins of government which she held even after GuangXu ascended the throne. When the royal family had to flee to avoid the invasion of foreign troops, Cixi ordered that the concubine first be drowned in the well in order to prevent her rescue or escape.

Good

What I thought good in the lives of the emperor’s is not worth mentioning, since it represented how things should be done to ensure continuing peace and livelihood for the poor man on the street in those days. Good emperors inquired diligently after the daily military and government affairs, sought to eradicate the corruption and incompetents around them, were sentimental at times, but not too much, and occasionally demonstrated a notable gesture of filial piety.

Bad
The murky situation surrounding the ascension of Emperor YongZheng fueled numerous speculations as KangXi died suddenly, and was succeeded equally suddenly by his son, the next emperor Yong Zheng. The speed and immediacy of the coronation in addition to its lack of transparency left a question mark on the legitimacy of Yong Zheng, that even today continues as a nagging doubt in the minds of the historians. People through the ages have always wondered: Did Yong Zheng murder his father and usurp the throne?

The Emperor XianFeng had only one son by Cixi, who was then only a royal concubine, albeit mother of the heir to the throne. One method of birth control frequently practiced in the palace is the kneading of a pressure point of on the concubine’s waist after the emperor had been with her. Rumour has it that after producing a son for the emperor, Cixi pre-empted any contenders for her son's title of crown prince by bribing the eunuch to perform the birth control procedure on all the concubines who had just been with the emperor, to ensure that none would conceive as a result. XianFeng died young and was suceeded by his only son, who was short lived and died young. Cixi remained the power behind the throne for many years, but the Qing dynasty, already past its peak, went steadily downhill after that.

Thus ends our trip to the forbidden palace. There is more to be told, but that’ll have to wait till another day I suppose.

First Day in Beijing

We have landed in Beijing after an uneventful flight and are now reclining in the luxurious living room of the serviced apartment that my friend’s family stays in. The two guys are watching anime, which I have decided not to let myself get hooked on, so I am occupying myself with documenting our trip so far.

The Flight

We arrived at Changi way, way earlier than the time the check in counters opened, and busied ourselves with looking around the numerous specialty shops in the airport, which tended towards shops carrying chocolates, books and duty free cigarettes and alcohol. I noticed that the exchange rate in the airport was not to be sniffed at at all, which made me glad that I had some money changed at Suntec Convention Centre before I came. On board a plane from Air China, the flight attendants who spoke mainly Chinese, but still managed to communicate with the passengers who were largely of Chinese descent, with only a sprinkling of foreigners. Although very dressed up, the air stewardesses were on the whole surprisingly average looking, compared to say, stewardesses in MAS. Another aspect which gave me mild astonishment was the fact that the stewardesses also doubled as promoters for duty free cigarettes and alcohol, and one stewardess walked slowly down the aisles turning the pages of a catalogue, inviting people to buy those items. As, it was 12.30am when we boarded the plane, I was wondering if there were even passengers wide awake enough to register what she was saying, let alone buy something. She did in fact sell a jumbo pack of cigarettes, an event which appeared to cause the body of flight crew some excitement, and to my amusement quite a number clustered around the vicinity of the sale brandishing pens, calculators and plastic bags, gesticulating vigorously while the simple transaction took place.

I dropped off soon after the plane took off and had napped for merely an hour when I was woken by – the smell of FOOD. A light supper was served at 1 am, consisting of a splash of pork porridge, some cut fruit, an unusually pungent-tasting arrangement of pickles which I tasted and then bypassed, guava juice and a sandwich. The sandwich, which I saved for breakfast turned out the nicest of the food there. I napped for some three hours and then awoke when the sunlight began slanting through the windows. Probably it had something to do with the altitude, but even the dawn sun at 5am was glaring. I tried unsuccessfully to go back to sleep but gave up and occupied myself with the readouts of the altitude, flight speed, miles left to travel, and outside temperature that were projected on a screen in front. Earlier in the night, the temperature actually dropped to -42 degrees Centigrade outside, although I would not have noticed the change in the insulated hold of the aircraft. The flight speed was in figures of some 800+km/hr. I also noticed that Beijing and Singapore/Malaysia were in the same time zone.

The First Day

We found ourselves in very good hands, indeed as my friend’s mom took us back to their 4 roomed serviced villa and served us a hearty breakfast. We each had a room of our own, fully furnished in the manner of luxury resorts, complete with television, a double bed, and complimentary toiletries. All, fortunately, at no extra trouble to our warm and generous hostess. As I said, these were serviced apartments, with a maid that came twice weekly to clean and change. After a bath, I drew the heavy blinds and fell into a sound sleep under the down coverlet.

I could fully appreciate the generousity shown by Shell to its employees and employees’ dependants. Not only was my friend’s father given a large serviced apartment costing some USD6000 a month (!), there were also additional perks including meal vouchers at a posh restaurant in the club house in the apartment grounds. We had lunch there today, and ordered far too much, including beef goulash, pate, mixed grill with cheese sauce, not to mention Chinese delicacies such as 'phoenix claws', prawn dunnowat, sea cucumber etc. Even though smothered by fancy food, I could still appreciate that the white rice was very soft and springy and went well with the abundance of rich gravies on the table. Indeed I am partial to a bowl of well cooked rice with a dash of really good gravy. Nothing was wasted, we simply tapaoed the leftovers and took them along with us for later. And it is only the first day. At this rate I shall get fat. Wait, why am I complaining?

Irrational Hurts and Irrational Balms

It feels so good the hear the rain fall when you are feeling down. The sound is such a balm for the feelings. I was brooding over some things tonight when I thought I heard the rain fall. And I thought how good it would feel if it were actually to rain, because I knew it would make me feel better. A moment later the swishy sound of the falling rain picked up in earnest, and sure enough it did actually make me feel better. Strange how some irrational balms can soothe some irrational hurts. Other irrational balms include typing things out to someone on the other side of a chat messanger window. Your confidant might say nothing in particular, yet the responses give you relief. Maybe it is just the sense of knowing someone has taken notice of and has sympathized with your pain. If you can summon enough sorrow to actually cry, you will also find that weeping is a relief and eases the pressure from your heart. It is almost like a release of too much tension. But always cry alone, unless you can find someone who will comfort you but not try to stop you from crying. People try to comfort a weeping person with a simple exhortation "don't cry", but does this indicate a desire to ease the person's grief or just to stop the outward manifestation of it?

The rain is still falling, falling, less heavily than previously when we had a swishy burst of raindrops but fades to a subdued murmur, then picks up a little, then eases again. It looks set to be a long rainy night. Perhaps the morning will be cooler tomorrow.

Searching through the milling crowds

One reads about China women coming over in droves to take up the flesh trade (although this is not to denigrate China women that come over for legitimate purposes nor imply that all prostitutes are from China), and one is aware that they are supposed to exist in the vicinity of Geylang, but one never comes across them in broad daylight, nor would one know if one did. But with a little help from my colleague at the ice cream stall, I soon learnt to diffferentiate the prostitutes from the dressed-up shoppers. Once I identified them, it was not hard to pick them out of the shoppers milling around in front of the complex several times during the day, several days in a row.

Some I saw more frequently than others. One women in black seemed almost to be stationed in the area before my stall. She would be dressed in black and walk into the shopping complex and out again, all the while scanning the crowds for potential customers with eyes that were anxious and anticipating. I would see her there day after day, walking in and out the shopping complex at odd hours, sometimes carrying a token bag of shopping presumably so as not to make it too obvious that she was not there to shop. She would be dressed moderately sexily in black, sometimes with short skirts to show off her slim legs, and her face would be painted brilliantly in an attempt to conceal her age which might be nearing fifty. Many a time she would pass my stall and I would somewhat half heartedly invite her to buy ice cream, knowing that she would not. She never did, although she lingered to look at the prices. Then she would go back to combing the crowds with her anxious eyes.

There was another round faced prostitute, who liked to sit on the chairs in front of the stall. I would go out to ask her if she would like to have anything to drink, whereupon she would stare wordlessly at me with blue- rimmed eyes, then she and her friend would gather their things to leave. Another time, this round faced prostitute came up to two men sitting at our tables and sat to talk with them. I debated with my ex-colleague whether to go up to them to ask them whether they wanted anything to drink. I did not expect nor hope that either the men or the prostitutes would order anything but I felt that our stall should not be used as a place to pick up men. She stared at me again with this look of anxiety in her eyes that I could not decipher and again said nothing.

What do these women think, searching everyday for different men to sleep with in order to earn their daily bread? Do they think of the diseases that might be lurking out there? Do they think that any guy would do so long as he was willing to pay, no matter how old or bent or wrinkled or how filthy or smelly he is? Do they contemplate their fading beauty, which they try futilely to retain with the use of cheap cosmetics? Do they know they do not have a future in this trade and so they work with the intention of saving enough money to be able to do something else? How do they deal with the knowledge that people who see them, the customers who patronise them, silently despise them for the way they earn a living? How do they bear it? Maybe after a certain point, dignity and self respect becomes unreal and disposable, or maybe finer notions are buried deep inside, the better to help the body cope with the demands of life and living, with the necessities of the trade they have adopted.

One reads of high class callgirls that actually enjoy what they are doing, that are educated, glamourous and love to live that free and easy lifestyle. That is a far cry from the Chinese prostitute on the street. I don't know what debts any one of them has undertaken to pay with her body, or what person or situation holds her shackled to that station in life. But from that look of anxiety in the eys of all of them, from the way they search relentlessly and unceasingly every day for customers, from the way they take snubs and indignities thrown their way, these women most certainly are not mistresses of their lives, and probably find that each day mires them deeper into the pit they entered. A narrow spiral towards a point of blackness so dark that one cannot begin to contemplate it.

The end of the second job

I found a second job but unfortunately it is now over. Again. Darn! I am frustrated about it because I really liked the job. I liked the boss, I liked my colleague, I liked the work, I liked the hours. The place was also conveniently near my hostel, at a journey of some 40 minutes away. I was earning a good $50 a day working about 10 hours, but time passed easily and the task of making shakes and scooping ice cream was rather pleasant.

But I still had to make the decision to quit the job yesterday. I still had to call my boss and tell him that I would have to suspend my work indefinitely. I could not even tell him the real reason I could not work, but instead had to fabricate some sob story and claim that I had to go back to Malaysia immediately. What was worse, my boss was very understanding and sympathetic about my supposed problem and wished me all the best on my supposed journey back. Suddenly I was jobless again. Suddenly my projected earnings for the next week became no more than wishful thinking. I found myself out of a job for the most bizarre of reasons, and while I have no doubt that quitting was the correct thing to do, it did not make me feel any better about it at all. The way I gave notice also left a bad taste in my mouth, but there was no other way to do it.

The problem begins and ends with my colleague who was the manager at the ice cream stall, a plump, sociable girl albeit with a rather sharp tongue. Many were the times she lectured me about having more respect, having more initiative, and daydreaming less. But then she would tell me that I was a good person to work with and hardworking and easy to get along with, and that I should not take any harsh words that she said to heart, although there was room for improvement in my work. I learned quickly and we got along quite well over the 6 days that I worked, sometimes experimenting with new drink concoctions, sometimes horsing around behind the counter. She told me about her current and ex boyfriend, including the sad story of how they broke up and how she was plunged into a depression for several months, finally recovering after receiving medical help.

On the last day that I worked there, she complained all day about not feeling well, saying that she had difficulty breathing and felt like vomiting. Then she told me a secret: her medication had to be taken via injection everyday, which was why she had to go to the toilet sometimes to inject it. She told me that the boss did not know about it and that I should not tell him. This admonition to keep her injected medications a secret was repeated several times. I promised that I would not tell because I felt rather sorry for her. The afternoon she prepared to go to the toilet to inject her medication again and she asked me to wish her luck because she needed to find her vein. She said veins were hard to find, and she showed me both forearms that were covered with needle pricks.

Almost an hour later, she came back grumpy with her hair dishevelled. "I haven't been able to find that stupid vein", she complained. "I haven't taken my medicine yet... and the toilet was freaking hot..." She showed me her left wrist which was red and swollen from her repeated attempts to locate her vein. She also complained that she had tried and failed to locate the vein in her thigh. But she proceeded to start serving customers again and for the rest of the day kept herself going by sipping red bull energy drinks. Although I had the uneasy suspicion that she might actually be injecting drugs the fact that she came back to work even after apparently failing to take her 'medication' somewhat reassured me, since I thought that a drug addict would not be able to function without regular doses of drugs. I was not naive enough to swallow wholly her story of medication that had to be kept secret from her employer, and did harbour a suspicion that she might be taking drugs, but the thought was highly disturbing and was such that I would not entertain it without more concrete proof. I had asked her the name of her illness but she said that it was a difficult name to remember and she could only recall that it started with a 'G'.

Chatting today with a friend of mine who is a pharmacy student, I was reminded of the subject and I brought it up with him. He was highly concerned when he heard that she was self injecting medication into her veins and said that he knew of no depression medication that could be self injected, because there were no such medications in the neuroscience section of the hospital pharmacy that he was doing a preceptorship in. He reasoned that no doctor would give a depressed patient a needle to inject medication, and that most if not all outpatient depression medications were taken orally. I was not yet ready to draw a hard conclusion from this and pressed him further as to whether there were any medications at all that could be taken intravenously. We ended up calling his preceptor and I spent about 15 minutes grilling her on whether it was almost certain that performing intravenous self injections meant that the person was taking narcotics. She said that in all probability, it was. My friend further reasoned that intravenous (IV) injections could not be self administered since it required trained personnel as accidentally injecting air into the vein could potentially be fatal. I realised that his line of logic was undeniably sound.

I had reached the distasteful conclusion that I had not wanted to reach, and knew that there was no question of my continuing with the job anymore. The workers in the stall sometimes had to use knives and other cooking implements and I knew that this was a risk I did not want to run. The only problem was how to quit the job, and what explanation should be given to the boss. I realised that I would not be helping the girl if I told my suspicions to the boss, since she would in all probability lose her job, and might have to turn to more desperate means to finance her habit. I knew that I could not even hint that the reason for my giving notice had anything to do with her as he would certainly get to the bottom of everything. I decided that I would give notice and produce a completely fabricated, yet believable reason, that my father's company was facing difficulties and that my mother wanted me to return home urgently to help. My boss, being a businessman, was highly sympathetic and wished me all the best.

And so I find myself out of a job once more, this time far less blameworthy and far more disgruntled. I bemoaned the quirky workings of fate that would deprive me of a job that I had come to like. Just before I typed this post, I googled for 'self administered intravenous injections' in the slim hope of finding out that there was a possibility that there were some such medications. There were none that I could find, and all mention of intravenous injections indicated that the patient should come in for the injection and not self administer it.

Perhaps one might ask: What of the other workers who might be working with that girl and should not I consider their welfare too by informing my boss about the truth of the situation? That, in the words of another friend and advisor of mine, would be thinking too much and too far. There was only so much I could do in this situation, and as far as I know, I believe I have done it.

The life and death of a so-called salesgirl

That was the very first job that I acquired this holidays, one of the very first that I interviewed for and one of the first to accept me for a temporary post of promoter with a promise that it would become permanent after a week.

The hours were such that would not have seemed unreasonable in an office job -- about 9 hours a days, 6 times a week. The work that I was expected to do seemed relatively easy, which was to promote accessories and provide customer service. The work in actuality was so little that I was almost driven insane with boredom. I have had a taste of boredom in a previous internship during which I actually went around practically, no, literally begging people for work. That time, I was finally given a task that no one else wanted to do -- data entry, and learned that if there is anything worse than boredom, it is the drudgery of a brainless, repetitive and tiring task. So maybe I should not be complaining to be paid to stand around in air-conditioned Takashimaya every day. But a restless goblin inside of me bemoans the necessity of enforced brain inactivity at times when the flow of customers are slow.

One was not allowed to read, one was not allowed to stand with ones arms crossed, and one was expected to dress according to Taka's promoter dress code, which I shall not bother to elaborate on here. One was always expected to serve customers with a smile howsoever pinned on, and woe betide one if customer should lodge a complain for whatsoever reason! But the worst thing, the worst stipulation was that one should be stand idle and expectant by one's stall for hours on end. Of course, some promoters would move around and talk with colleagues. That, I noticed was their main form of entertainment: to gossip and complain about life, work and supervisors against whom some were particularly antagonistic, albeit not openly. But this form of occupying one's hours would only go so far. I made notes and laid them on the table to be read surreptitiously and discreetly. This system worked, if only for a few days. When I was moved to another counter the layout of that counter made this action immediately apparent and my boss promptly put a stop to it. The hours again stretched drearily and unendingly. I despaired and seriously considered giving up the job.

My boss beat me to it. While I was yet considering whether I should give a week's notice, she called me one fine morning and told me that I need not go the next day. Presumably my sales were not good, but the abruptness of the dismissal immediately after she stopped me reading my notes, leads me to wonder if that was not a consideration, or even a main factor.

Lest you think that this has been a total waste of time, I hasten to clarify that this job, although fortunately truncated, has been an eye opener in more ways than one. I shall never look at a salesgirl in the same way again, even though their availability and constant, even irritating presence leads one to take them for granted.