Beijing Tai Tai

by Tania McCartney

  Our kids, on the other hand, are getting a little bit used to luxe. After a week in Sanya on China’s Hainan Island (seven days of pure paradise), I fear it will be impossible to get these kids into a sleeping bag ever again. Our trips to Phuket and Langkawi islands were similarly luxe, and subsequent nights in Hong Kong, Bangkok and other world spots have really created emperors and empresses out of our very regular little monkeys.

  When I look back at my Australian childhood, going camping and staying in caravans are some of my most joyous memories. We loved it. We loved winding fat damper dough onto sticks and baking them over the campfire before pouring golden syrup into the hole left by the stick. We loved ‘hunting’ wildlife with little more than a torch and a handful of nervous giggles. We loved curling up gum leaves and trying to make them whistle. We loved dipping into icy cold creeks in our underwear or running headlong into the churning ocean for some bodysurfing and a tonne of sand deposits in our gruns (bathing-suit bottoms for non-surfing readers).

  What is it about our childhood memories? Why do they swamp us when we become parents? Why do we so dearly love to re-encounter the joys of our past and re-invent them with our own kids? From particular toy brands to old-fashioned games to everyday experiences, it’s so rewarding to watch our kids enjoy our own retro past. It conjures memories of the tenderness and rawness of being a child, of being able to appreciate and so fully immerse ourselves in life, unfettered by responsibility and the demands of adulthood.

  Watching my kids pop ice blocks from plastic sheaths for the first time sent me soaring back to when I was five, only we had to cut our blocks from the plastic sheet with scissors, being careful not to nick the sides and risk the coloured juice leaking out. When I first watched the kids click together Lego bricks, I was cast back to when I was eight, sitting on the moss green carpet of our living room in Tasmania, with the winter sun streaming in and a village of Lego houses spread all around, with red tile roofs and shutters that opened to let the breezes in. Watching my kids roll up beach towels and wear them as turbans on their heads sent me straight back to when I was nine, when we’d sun ourselves on the cement steps near our above-ground swimming pool, rolling up towels to create curtains of long ‘hair’ for our heads.

  Don’t we want to give our kids a life of glorious experience and opportunity? Aren’t we consistently trying to form fond and beautiful memories for them to revert to when life as an adult becomes challenging? It means everything to watch my children delight in life’s experiences—but although watching them doze in the beachside hammocks of a five-star hotel is certainly picture-perfect, I also crave their losing a gumboot in the suction of black farmyard mud, digging out the lumpy stones and pebbles beneath their sleeping bags, and fishing mulligrubs from their holes in the hard-packed earth with long spears of grass.

  For now, we’ll take the five-star padding while we can, because very soon, tents and gas stoves will probably be our only option. And frankly, I’m looking forward to this more than I ever imagined.

  To Write or Not to Write

  That is the question

  Actually, the real question is this: when am I going to get on my behind and write for a living? As in: a job.

  Not such an easy question to answer.

  I love to write. I wrote my first novel when I was ten. It was a love story, believe it or not—or more probably a friendship story, as the main characters were only ten years old, after all. My first magazine article was published when I was twenty. It was a glorious feeling. When my first book— You Name It—was published in 1995, I leapt around the living room for fifteen minutes straight before collapsing on the floor from exhaustion. Oh yes, that was a Life Moment. When you love doing something that much, the feeling when success elusively arrives is really overwhelming.

  Over the years, I’ve written poetry, plays, workshops and countless manuscripts of varying genres from novels to non-fiction. No style was ever constant, just so long as I could write. But one constant with me has been my powerful ability to give up. One pernickety comment or rejection slip too many, and that’s it, I’m off the project, telling myself that maybe writing is not for me. Maybe I’m not meant to do this. Maybe I’m not good enough and should just try something else.

  Over the years, I did try something else. I tried being a barmaid, promotional girl, data entry clerk, catwalk model, desktop publisher, teacher, speaker, website designer, craft marketeer, astrologer, executive secretary, eBay seller, personal assistant and flight attendant. I worked in marketing, sales, advertising, businesses big and little. I even took on an incredibly important role as a mother.

  Yes, I tried it all. But writing kept calling me back, despite fears that Fate was telling me it wasn’t what I was ‘meant to do’.

  Something strange has happened since we’ve arrived in Beijing, however. I’ve gradually realised that Fate doesn’t design our lives. We do. What we do, what we believe, how we act in the world designs our Fate. As the famed artist Edvard Munch once said, ‘Thou shalt live thine own life. Thou shalt never regret.’

  So, I’ve decided to write my own life. I’ve decided to contact a magazine here in Beijing called tbjkids. I’m going to write to the editor and I’m going to ask her if she takes freelance work. What have I got to lose? What harm can it do? I know I can do great quality work for them, I just have to take that first Herculean step and ask. What’s the worst that can happen? They’ll say ‘no’?

  We shall see. And then we shall never regret.

  Expat Man Eats Donkey

  Hee-haw!

  Oh Lord, this is possibly the grossest thing I’ve ever had close proximity to. It still turns my stomach, and hearing about it first-hand actually stopped me eating for an entire day (there’s a weight-loss plan for you).

  You see, Xiansheng recently had the life-altering experience of ingesting the reproductive organs of a donkey. Actually, it was two donkeys—a male and a female, perhaps husband and wife. God rest their procreative souls.

  If my husband had told me he was served these donkey parts in a warming, gravy-coated stew, I could have perhaps stomached the idea of it. The fact that he was served cold cuts—I’m talking cold slices of reproductive organs (let your imagination run wild)—really screwed with my gag reflex. I know and appreciate and respect that these parts are considered a delicacy in some Chinese circles, but the gag reflex is involuntary, after all. It wasn’t my fault.

  It also wasn’t my fault that I found it necessary to give Xiansheng a wide berth for a few days, at least until that feast had worked its way through and completely exited his body. I just couldn’t even bear the thought of those donkeys residing in his digestive tract. I had to form distance.

  A week later, Xiansheng turned 21 again, and we had a celebration for him—a delicious feast of sushi and sashimi in honour of our upcoming trip to Japan to celebrate this milestone age. Funny that we find it no problem to slurp down slimy, raw fish, yet donkey uterus is out of bounds.

  Xiansheng loved the raw fish feast, and to finish off the spectacular meal, in honour of his recent culinary exploits Ella presented him with a very special dessert: a stuffed toy donkey on a plate, complete with knife and fork.

  To his credit, he didn’t flinch. He did laugh. Then he started munching on that poor creature—to the horrified refrain of every donkey-loving person in the house.

  Post Office

  God help me; what is it with this place?

  Today I went to the post office to send off some things. I have to tell you about this small, basic occurrence because it might help you begin to understand how China has quietly driven me to insanity.

  Here is what happened.

  I placed a letter in a standard white envelope, addressed it to Shanghai and sealed it. I took it to the post office and handed it to the clerk who promptly told me it’s not possible to send white envelopes to Shanghai. Only brown ones can be sent. I stared at her. She was absolutely serious.

  I re-addressed a brown
envelope.

  The next thing I wanted to send was some items to a friend in the States—some baby clothes, some teensy toys. The postal clerk insisted these had to go in a humungous China Post box. I said a padded envelope would do. She said they don’t have envelopes big enough and the items must go in a humungous China Post box. I pointed to a pile of padded envelopes behind her, the smallest of which would easily fit my items.

  They put the items into a padded envelope and off went the parcel.

  My last item was a large envelope to Chongqing. I had pasted an address in Chinese characters onto the front of that envelope, then handwrote, in English, the return address in the top left-hand corner, as I have done countless times in China. The letter was rejected for sending because the return address, in fact, had to be on the bottom right-hand corner when going to Chongqing and when using an envelope of this size.

  Overcome with controlled rage, I snatched the envelope from the clerk and seized a pen. I then circled the address in the top left-hand corner and drew a big fat arrow down and around, pointing to the bottom right-hand corner. Then I crossed my arms and stared at the clerk, my nostrils flaring like a bull.

  She sent the bloody envelope.

  You’re Fired!

  I think I want to sack my ayi

  What she does that drives me into the pits of despair is not what’s important here. It’s the fact that it’s happening more and more frequently and with greater drama that’s the issue. And after well over three years of it, I’m at boiling point.

  I don’t know why I don’t sack Ayi. Other tai tai have told me they wouldn’t hesitate to get rid of her (heartless sods), but then they’re the first ones to tell you of the nightmare of changing ayis. What if I sack Ayi and then get another one who’s even worse? And what about the hefty challenge of re-training, re-explaining, re-showing, re-guiding, rehashing things over and over again in a language that’s hard enough to navigate without adding specific instructions to it.

  For all her mental game-playing and intermittent psycho behaviour, Ayi actually does a pretty good job. She needs a bit of a fluff-up every now and then—like when you fluff a doona and it resettles its feathers to be more effective—but overall, she’s consistent. Sometimes she shows initiative and sometimes she’s phenomenally helpful. I don’t think she’s evil. She cooks well. She whinges a bit and can be a little slow, but she’s not lazy. She’s familiar with my knickers and the inside of our toilet bowls and she knows our house, our family, our preferences and how things work.

  Changing this could be more trouble than it’s worth. On top of that, she’s elderly and it would undo me to think that sacking her means she probably wouldn’t get a job anywhere else.

  Oh, the ayi technicalities!

  What to do? Sometimes I like her, sometimes I detest her, and things aren’t great at the moment. Every time her key turns in the lock, my shoulders rise up and clench into fists. Is this really a healthy way to live? But then, is changing ayis also going to give me health problems?

  I’ll sleep on it, as I always do, and will probably wake up, as I always do, giving Ayi another chance.

  Stop the Press!

  I’m a real working writer

  Sometimes, taking a deep breath and asking pays off. Sometimes taking a risk or being brave comes up trumps. Sometimes believing in yourself (for once) takes you further than you could ever imagine.

  It took a lot for me to harness the courage to approach the editor of tbjkids magazine about writing for them, and, much to my delight, she was, well, delighted! She wants me to write for the magazine, and not only that, after writing my first tiny piece for the tidbits section, she’s since phoned to ask for a travel piece, an end-page piece, and a feature article on how to throw a gorgeous baby shower.

  Oh yes, I’m agog. I feel like a magazine addict at a magazine addict’s fair. I’ve always been a magazine addict, actually, and most especially magazines that involve kids and families. How could this be more perfect? I’ll tell you how.

  It couldn’t be.

  I don’t know where this is going but I’m squeezing my eyes shut and making a wish and hoping on a star, comet and planet. Oh, and I’m also going to work my guts out, and I’m not going to give up.

  Watch this space.

  My Kingdom for a Rabbit

  Un convincing a pet-obsessed child

  My daughter wants a rabbit. Or a dog, cat, bird, hamster, pony or polar bear, in no particular order.

  The problem is that this Want is sticking like a pancake in an unbuttered pan, and won’t fade away with the myriad other desires preceding it, like becoming a Chinese acrobat, having the world’s largest Pokemon card collection or moving permanently to a bungalow on the beach in Phuket.

  It’s not that I don’t like animals, truly. I become as enamoured with Labrador puppies, freshly hatched chicks and the adorable belly rolls on a seal as much as the next person—I just don’t want them inside my house. There are lots of reasons, the very least being that we don’t have a grassy backyard, a hen house or an Arctic Ocean in our apartment. It’s also the fact that owning a pet in Beijing can be far too fleeting, is fraught with far too many health issues and, frankly, the desire is just not there.

  It’s also because I’m a sook. I can’t bear the thought of leaving a pet in Beijing, or worse, of losing it to rabies or feline AIDS or simply old age. When our daughter’s fish died after a one-night family absence, she was hysterical and I’ve never forgiven myself. We’ve tried other fish but they too left us quickly—and I swear I had nothing to do with it. Flushing those bloated little bodies down the loo is not something I relish and I couldn’t imagine what we’d do if the pet wasn’t flushable.

  But there’s more than just fear-of-loss involved here. It’s pet hair. I’m talking asthmatic lung spasms and chain-linked sneezing and eyeballs turning into itching cesspits of blood-shot damnation. Even if I wasn’t so allergic, I’d still have an issue with pet hair in the home. Yes, I know about vacuum cleaners. And yes, yes, I have an ayi who just delights in sweeping floors and brushing down furniture, but it’s hard enough for her to keep the perpetual haze of dust from every surface without also adding fur balls.

  My final argument for Not Getting A Pet is the care factor. Yes, we’ve heard it all before—‘Mum, I’ll feed it, I’ll bathe it, I’ll take care of it.’ Ain’t gonna happen. Like the fish before them, any pet that comes to live in our house will be looked after by none other than Me, Moi, Wo. And you only have to recall the fate of those fish to understand my pet track record.

  Not even my own memories of begging for a dog at seven years of age are enough to sway me. All kids do this, so it seems. Even pet-dream-squashing me. My Ella will eventually tire of asking (hopefully) and then maybe one day, when we return to Australia, she can keep something fluffy in a hutch at the end of a very long Aussie backyard, in the shade of a large tree and well away from my furniture, lungs, eyeballs and low desire to care for yet another clan member.

  I guess I’ll get my comeuppance eventually ... Ella assures me she wants to become a vet. In the meantime, she’ll just have to rely on her menagerie of stuffed pets.

  And don’t worry—I haven’t taken up taxidermy.

  White Shoes

  The unending, mind-bending battle with Beijing’s dirt

  Our son Riley has a white shoe obsession. Nike, Adidas, Puma, Lacoste, Converse (well ... designer copies). All good, so long as they’re white. Blue will not do. Nor will grey. Brown? Forget it. And red? Ha ha hee hee ha ha ho!

  Now, normally such an obsession wouldn’t be a problem in the average family’s life, but when you add four-year-old-outdoor-syboyness to the open slather of grime on Beijing’s streets, it’s a whole different story for the White Shoe Brigade. The squeaky-clean, blindingly luminescent sneakers I bring home from Ya Show are condemned to a fate worse than dog dander once strapped to those dirt-destined feet. I kid you not—brand new, shiny shoes at 8a.m. Dog-eaten, shoddy, charcoal-s
meared foot sacks by 4p.m. No wonder the Chinese take off their shoes upon entering the house. Very wise.

  I probably manage to stretch these mucky foot sacks to about a month or two before tossing them in the garbage, and trust me, I’ve tried many different tactics to keep them looking part-way presentable for school, including a risk-laden tumble in the washing machine. I’ve even eyed off the scrunchy plastic bags Chinese adults slip over their shoes when entering a house ... maybe we could start a new trend on the streets of Beijing.

  So, yes, I’ve hunted Beijing and beaten it black and blue for some black and blue shoes my son might deem worthy of his feet. But no. White it is. Oh how I pine for a pair of shoes that might hide the muck for more than a day, for more than a week, for more than a month, or even more! How I pine to drastically shave down my shoe-seeking visits to Ya Show. I’m quite reluctantly a VIP at my kids’ shoe supply stall. ‘Nin hao! Hui lai le ma?’ they sing sweetly—she’s back! Ker ching ker ching!

  But it’s no good. Riley won’t bend.

  We’ve tried bribery, trickery and, God forbid, reasoning with our son over this crazy shoe thing. We’ve tried giving him choice. We’ve tried reverse psychology. We even tried banning white shoes altogether (it was an ugly, ugly time). It’s been a distressing, emotional, mind-bending challenge—one that I know I’m not going to win. I guess a four-year-old’s obsession is just too tough to crack and a wise mother knows how to pick her battles.

  I therefore think it’s time to wave the white shoe flag. I’m off to Ya Show. Ker ching.