Beijing Tai Tai

by Tania McCartney

  It’s going to rend my heart in two to leave Beijing. At least I won’t have three extra broken hearts to deal with as well.

  Let The Games Begin!

  So, what did you think?

  Of the Opening Ceremony, I mean. Showy enough for you?

  Me? I’m not so sure. It started out well. Loved the drumming. Just mind-boggling. Loved the Cuisenaire rods jutting up and down in machine-like motion, sucking down like quicksand, rolling in waves and the sudden appearance of ancient Chinese characters. Sooo cool. Xiansheng and I took bets on whether or not there were busy little men beneath the rods, doing all the hard work. What a delight it was to see their smiling faces pop up from the bowels of this contraption when they were done. Beautiful.

  China sure has manpower and they used it remarkably, but once the ancient scroll rolled out and those lissom dancers tumbled their way over the canvas, it sort of just plateaued from there—still impressive, but, I don’t know ... I just wanted to be wow kapow-ed.

  This is just an opinion. Others might have fallen over from ecstasy, talking in tongues. I just didn’t. Maybe I expected too much from China (they’re the masters of showmanship, after all). Maybe I expected three gold-dipped emperors entering a vacant arena on horseback to the sound of a single gong. Maybe I was waiting for the Great Wall to emerge from the floor in a cloud of mist. And yes, yes, maybe I expected a Chinese dragon or two. Perhaps a little predictable, a tad clichéd, but my goodness, they are fun, especially when accompanied by those tsinging cymbals.

  Maybe we just had to be there.

  Nevertheless, we enjoyed the spectacle from the comfort of our lounge room, and the kids were allowed to stay up all night, as a treat. Ella lasted till 9p.m. before she started groaning from fatigue and Riley’s eyes started rolling in his head soon after. By 10.30p.m. he was asleep on my chest and Ella had already disbanded to bed, miffed that the Australian athletes had not yet made an appearance and that she had not yet seen the Flame.

  Happily, this morning they replayed the Ceremony and she saw the Flame, which was pretty special. Not kapow. But pretty special.

  What is special is the Games coverage on television today. Even though I can only understand 3 per cent of the words, the coverage is pretty darn special. I can flick between about five different channels and get giddy from choice. I have already seen China win its very first gold—Chen Xiexia won first place in the female 48 kilograms weightlifting (now that girl kapow-ed me!).

  So, we have an exciting two weeks ahead and I’m a very happy tai tai. I’ve even got the kids hepped-up and we have national flags (one Australia, one China) in the most prized place of all: right over the telly.

  Aodaliya jia you! Go Australia!

  A Fishy Tale

  Did he jump or was he pushed?

  You should know by now that I’m not the most avid pet-collector. Again, I insist, I like pets very much, I just don’t want to own any. Not right now, anyway. We’ve only just come through the Yes, We Are Absolutely Certain We Want No More Babies stage, so pets don’t really factor on the radar, especially while living in Beijing.

  So, the reason I’m bringing this up again is because on Friday, Riley came home with an orange goldfish clutched firmly in a suffocating plastic bag. As he and Ella clambered off the Summer Camp bus, they were both buzzing with excitement, regaling me with tales of how one of the other kids’ fishes jumped from its plastic bag, and how the children went into a frenzy trying to pick it up from the bus floor.

  I cringed, then reassured the kids. ‘Those goldfish can’t jump that high,’ I said, all-knowingly. ‘Don’t worry.’

  Famous last words.

  So the fish—unwanted, I might add—found a home in a large, fat vase with pebbles in the bottom, and two pet-hungry pairs of eyes watching his every move. Xiansheng even rode his bike to our local fish store for a good supply of dried bloodworms and a mini air pump. This fish—Mr Fish—was certainly bathed in adoration but he just didn’t seem happy in that poor excuse for a home.

  Last night, I talked to the kids about how nice it would be to let Mr Fish go; to make some new friends in the pond at the base of our building, with our mates the penny turtles. Once again, they were okay about it but made me promise not to let him go until they returned from Summer Camp this afternoon.

  Perfect! I thought. No more daily tank cleanings, no more disdainful glances at that miserable fish, encased in his glass prison. I was looking forward to the release with much excitement. I was going to get Ella to draw a farewell card and Riley to wave him goodbye as he plunged into the limpid deep of fishy freedom.

  Alas, not to be. This morning I went out to a meeting and when I returned, I shot a glance at the tank to see how Mr Fish was doing.

  Gone.

  Gone? How? My eyes darted left and right, up to the ceiling and down again, and there he was, stiff as a board in the middle of the living room floor. His tail was even crunchy when I picked him up. It was horrible. Are pets really worth these horrific death scenes?

  So, several questions are consuming me right now. What do I tell the kids? Should I tell them it was suicide? Would that distress them? Should I tell them it was an accident? How can a fish have an accident? Should I tell them someone broke in and stole him for their own fishy collection? I’m really stumped on this one.

  And the most painful question of all ... why, Mr Fish? Why did you do it? Were you really that miserable? Was your tank not comfortable enough? And right on the eve of your release into the wild ... such a sad irony. Did you plan to do it while I was not home and could not rescue you? Why, Mr Fish? Why?

  I guess honesty is the best policy: ‘Yes, kids, it looks like goldfish can jump.’ And make calculated decisions about their own fate, too, by the look of things. Mr Fish obviously thought this through, and now I’m not so sure goldfish really do have a three-second memory.

  Wish me luck with the kids. And zai jian, Mr Fish. Goodbye. I hope things go swimmingly in Guppy Heaven.

  In Memoriam.

  Bagging a Bargain

  Avoiding a touristy trunk full of junk

  Being a bit of a seasoned Beijing shopper, the Olympic influx of tourists to our fair capital has got me thinking about the blast they’re going to have shopping. There’s simply too much to buy in China. Everything is made here, after all, but the sheer volume and variety could see tourists travelling home with a trunk full of junk.

  While Beijing certainly has the mother lode when it comes to hokey knick-knacks, there are also some real treasures to be found—some touristy-kitsch and others curiously valuable both in terms of memorabilia and actual preciousness. Forget the watches, stuffed pandas and postcards. Why not think outside the Tian’anmen square?

  Instead of an I Heart BJ t-shirt, get a retro Chinese print from Plastered T-shirts in the Dongcheng District—the subway ticket and taxi fare prints will make you look like a real local. Teen girls should snaffle a copy of Chinese Vogue from street vendors; it represents one of China’s fastest growing industries: high fashion.

  Panjiayuan ‘antiques’ market (remember, there are no antiques left in China—none you could afford, anyway; my apologies if you are Bill Gates or the Sultan of Brunei) is an absolute must-see for those who love bric-a-brac. Bargain like a demon but remain calm and friendly and you’ll get your price. This is a real treasure-trove of finds, from original art to stone carvings, bronze statues and clunky baubles for the kids.

  Also have a wander along the famous Liulichang ‘antiques’ street where bric-a-brac treasures like cast-iron clocks, bronze statuettes, carved jade-stone pendants and old coins abound. Also look for traditional paintbrushes for the kids, art books, beautiful writing paper and chops. Kids will love choosing a chop—a small rectangular block of stone which can be carved with their name or a Chinese character; a personalised stamp for life. Don’t forget a traditional red-inked stamp pad.

  Bargain hard—this is a tourist street, after all. A general rule is to halve a given
price, then halve it again. Try to have fun bargaining; it’s not a war and a smile will always bring a better price. While you don’t want to get ripped off, don’t waste precious time and a migraine on bargaining over 5 or 10 yuan—these people often don’t make much on their wares, so focus on the spirit of the sale, rather than the angst of chasing the rock-bottom deal. Above all else, remember that if you love the item and the price suits you, you’ve got yourself a true bargain.

  If you visit the famed Drum and Bell Tower, be sure to stop off in the small minority shops you’ll find in the square. Their wares are nothing like those you’ll find at markets—from small drums to wooden toys to handmade, beautifully crafted leather bags and heavily embroidered baby slippers.

  Gemstones and precious metals are a must-buy in China, though remember that Chinese jade is either non-existent or will cost you the equivalent of a flight home. Pick up a sterling silver pendant at Ya Show market in a Chinese character—luck, love, happiness—for as little as 20 yuan. A stack of fifteen silver bangles lashed together should cost no more than 50 yuan. If you have daughters, invest in a good set of pearls. Beijing’s authentic, lustrous creations will set you back 5 to 10 per cent of the cost at home; go to Ling Ling on the Pearl Market’s (Hongqiao) fourth floor and ask them to show you some genuine quality.

  Other market gems, in no particular order: sandalwood fans, quilts, pashminas, woven silk, little Chinese dresses ( qi pao) and slippers, shoes with flashing lights for toddlers, silk bags with bamboo handles, and Chinese zodiac animals carved from jade-stone. Don’t forget an alarm clock with Chairman Mao waving merrily—an absolute imperative.

  And my all-time favourite? Low on class, high on kitsch, our family’s prized possession is a Lucky Cat, spray-painted gold and beckoning mountains of fortune into our house with its perpetually waving paw.

  When it comes to shopping, I ♥ China.

  Olympic Hockeyroos

  Our family has scored gold ... Olympic tickets!

  Due to my husband’s work, my busyness, the kids, the heat, crowds and other unspecified niggles, going into the Olympic ticket bid was a little ‘too hard’ for our family. Even though I personally adore the Games, I wasn’t devastated about not going, so my reaction really took me by surprise when Xiansheng came home waving tickets to the women’s hockey. I actually jumped up and down, screaming.

  Within minutes, my daughter Ella hand-drew and coloured in an Australian flag and I unearthed a batch of flag tattoos and my telephoto lens.

  I also began asking all the standard questions I suppose everyone has asked. Can we take cameras (yes), can we take snacks in for the kids (not sure), can we take water (no), can we buy water when we get in there (yes), can we take umbrellas (only fold-up ones), can we arrive earlier or later than our ticket time (mixed reports), can we stay as long as we like (not sure), can we take flags in (small ones), can we retain our tickets (yes), can we jump up and down like monkeys when our team knocks that little ball into the net (oh yes yes yes!)?

  So, we are officially in the Olympic loop. We even get to go to the Olympic Green, which is just soooo exciting and I’m gagging to take a photo of the Olympic torch atop the Bird’s Nest stadium. I want to take photos of everything, even the ground and the grass and the signs, and Ella, having caught the shutterbug from her mother, is also taking her camera.

  Can hardly believe we’re going. I held our little stack of tickets like a precious gold ingot in my cupped hands and turned them over and over and squeezed them like a Willy Wonka golden ticket. It was a memorable moment. I have hidden them in my house. Hidden from whom, I’m not so sure; probably from my own propensity to put things in that infamous Safe Place—a place where things go to never be found again.

  I know it sounds twee, but truly, the most exciting part about this whole ticket thing is that our kids get to go. When the ticket lead-up to the Games first began, I remember hearing lots of queries from parents about taking their kids along. At first, I thought ‘But why? Heat, queues, crowds, lousy food, long wait times, kids whining to go home as soon as their backsides hit the stalls...’

  But now that I’m holding tickets, I’ve changed my tune. How on earth could we not take them? I think they’ll love it. And hopefully my stash of lollipops (are lollipops allowed in?) will keep any teensy stretches of sporting boredom at bay.

  Whatever happens, this is a special moment in time that I’m enormously grateful for. And those special times absolutely need to be shared with the kids.

  Aussie Aussie Aussie— oi oi oi!

  Jiminy Cricket!

  Are the heavens conspiring against me?

  When Riley’s goldfish, Mr Fish, topped himself, I knew my pet-keeping fate had been sealed. The kids actually dealt with it well—I told them Mr Fish took a leap for freedom and they just looked at me wide-eyed. No tears. And no, I didn’t add that this will teach us for keeping poor oceanic creatures in vases. Hopefully they will cotton on to that fact themselves.

  So, the day after the demise of Mr Fish, Ayi came in and set about pottering in the kitchen, when this strange, God-awful screeching noise appeared out of nowhere. Dashing to the kitchen, I was quickly halted when Ayi held up her thumb and forefinger with a dirty great hulking cicada clenched between them, shrieking its head off.

  At first I was horrified, but then I realised she was only trying to ease the loss of Mr Fish. She told me lots of Chinese kids keep these things as pets and carry them around in their pockets and under their caps. She said my kids would love him. I told her they’d be terrified of him.

  Sure enough, when Ella and Riley came home from Summer Camp and Ayi charged towards them holding this prehistoric creature aloft, both kids ran in the other direction. Curiosity did pull them back eventually, however, and later that night Ella was carrying Mr Cicada (what is it with the ‘Mr’ title in our house?) around in an enormous plastic tub, taking him for a ‘walk’. Riley, however, retained his distance.

  That night, Ayi must have taken Mr Cicada home because he wasn’t here yesterday and he didn’t keep us awake all night last night, as expected. I was going to launch him to freedom from our window, anyway, but it looks like Ayi did that already. Unless she took him home for dinner (do the Chinese eat cicadas)?

  But back to yesterday. No Mr Cicada in sight, but Ayi did come in again with another surprise. An enormous green grasshopper encased in a miniscule bamboo cage, with barely enough room to stretch his long-jumping legs. A beautiful creature, his teensy prison was stacked with spring onions which he dutifully grazed upon, and whose oniony pong spread throughout the house each and every time he munched.

  He is indeed beautiful, and when the kids came home they were intrigued by him. Riley has named him Sam, and when Sam finally felt comfortable enough in our house, he began his chanting call which sent me straight back to the countryside of Australia—in the early evening when the stars begin to pop and the crickets begin trilling their bushland lullaby.

  It’s now Day Two and I want to crush that lullaby in my fist, along with that critter’s bamboo cage.

  Sure, at first it was lovely, but by late evening it was irritating. I moved Sam to the enclosed balcony and shut the door. Alas, the balcony fronts onto Riley’s room, and Sam’s early morning wake-up call had a domino effect on our family. First Sam, then Riley, then Ella, then Mum and Dad wailing their now familiar lament: ‘It’s too early! Go back to bed!’

  Damn Sam.

  Today, Sam’s chanting lullaby has just about risen to the do-your-head-in level. We were going to let him go today anyway, but it can’t be soon enough for me. Not only do I want to save Sam from that cage and the three-day pet curse we have in our house, but boy am I hankering for some cricket-free silence.

  So, Sam, it’s been just swell. Thanks for stopping by but freedom is imminently yours. The kids will be home any minute now and you’ll soon be hopping to freedom in the grass downstairs.

  Another one bites the Beijing dust.

  The Spor
tsmanship Games

  Can patriotism extend beyond homeland passion?

  They say living away from your home country fosters a deeply rooted dose of heart-thumping patriotism. I’ve experienced this when living away from Australia in the past but living in China has given me a solid re-dose, particularly given the fact that we’ve come here with children.

  Keeping Australia alive and well in our children’s minds and hearts has been a given, but it’s also been curious to watch our kids pine for their homeland unprompted, and to refer and defer to it consistently, as is their birthright.

  Powerful stuff, that birthright; that homeland connection.

  Despite falling in love with Beijing and never ever wanting to leave (as at the time of writing this), this homeland connection is calling our family. It’s like a siren song, and lately it seems to be getting stronger, lulling us over the waves of the Pacific Ocean, skimming over the Great Barrier Reef, bounding through Papua New Guinea and leaping over the Tropic of Capricorn, glancing off Hong Kong and flooding into the Beijing basin. And we can, of course, hear its call all the more strongly since the commencement of the Olympic Games.

  There’s nothing much more patriotism-pumping than the Games, no matter where in the world you reside. Watching our Aussie athletes come to Beijing and strive for glory is a wondrous thing, and after seeing our team hover in the top five for the duration of the Games ... well, for a country comprising only 21 million people (roughly the population of Greater Shanghai), that’s some pride-inducing feat.

  But forgive me my nepotism. The point here is to extend to you, dear reader, that no matter where you’re from, watching the Olympics from a foreign country is incredibly eye-opening. Particularly eye-opening for me because it seems the Aussies are not the only ones I’m barracking for.