Kitsch Kills

BEIJING -- One thing industrialization has brought to China is a standardization of tourist crap.The same assemblage of fat Buddha statues, cheap metal coins and chops are for sale at attractions from the Mongolian border to Vietnam.

That predictability meant I wasn't surprised that the tiny alley market off Wangfujing Street hadn't changed in the three years since my last visit. The only noticeable new product was a pair of shiny stones, which somehow boomeranged and whistled when thrown in the air.

I came with a couple friends, capping off a rare day of sightseeing in Central Beijing. I have a certain affinity for Chinese kitsch, but having already purchased a good chunk of this stuff in 2004 I only observed this time. It was the first time for everyone else, and they slowly examined the items on display.

"Are you going to buy a Little Red Book?" I asked one of them, idly making conversation.

"No, I don't think so," he said, with just a hint of disgust.

The conversation quickly moved from there, but I became concerned at my own suggestion. Was it appropriate to encourage people to buy copies of something associated with the Cultural Revolution?

My own copy of the Little Red Book is sitting in my closet in Albany, next to a plastic drum and a crumbled entrance ticket to the Xi'an terracotta warriors. It came from Hong Kong's Temple Street Night Market, a series of clothing stalls, porn booths, fortune tellers and tiny seafood shops that comes together after sunset in the middle of Kowloon. I found my copy at a small antique place, underneath a pile of new English, German and Cantonese translations.

The newer copies use cheap plastic, but the older ones use a higher-quality leather. The book was worn, with many passages inside underlined and Chinese notes in the margin. I talked down the price, pointing out these deficiencies to the shop owner. The book cost about $5.

The big draw is a supposed collection of quotes from Mao Zedong. In reality many of these quotes were heavily edited before appearing in the text, but these edited entries were used as a gospel in a religion that condemned hundreds of thousands of people to death. The words themselves are certainly not responsible -- just as in the Bible, many of the quotes are vague enough to be bent in any particular direction -- but the Book represents an awful era. (What exactly does "every Communist working in the mass movements should be a friend of the masses and not a boss over them, an indefatigable teacher and not a bureaucratic politician," from Chapter 28 mean?)

And I think the book is less a Pop Artifact than some of the other artifacts from this era sold in the country. The propaganda posters represent a separate and important style, and I have fewer problems with their presence in American college dorm rooms than with that book in my closet.

I know enough Chinese history that the words "Cultural Revolution" bring to mind images of suffering, torture and death, but it can be hard to rectify this with the excitement of a Beijing market, where vendors encourage you to take a piece of this era home. I can only hope next time I have the smarts to say, "no thanks."

English Speaking Friends

ULAANBAATAR, Mongolia - Here in Mongolia, everyone knows someone who speaks English.

 

I first observed this phenomenon in the Russian border town of Kyakrt, where faithful blog readers will remember I nearly wound up broke and trapped inside Russia. Arriving in Kyakrt by minibus, I waved goodbye to three friendly passengers: a student, his girlfriend, and The Man with Pink Bubble Gum. After helping me lower my giant rolling suitcase to ground level, The Man with Pink Bubble Gum gestured toward my notebook. He took my pen and wrote a name and phone number on a blank page.

 

"Mongolia. Anglski. Mongolia," he said.

 

I understood. In Mongolia this person spoke English.

 

Hearing this the student took the notebook and wrote another name and phone number inside.

 

"Tour guide. Ulan Bator. Speak very good English."

 

Then they left. Leaving me stranded 150 miles from the nearest city with insufficent funds to cross the border. English speaking people in Mongolia are all well and good, but right then an English speaker in Russia would have been better.

 

This morning my mission was slightly more mudane. Jin and Myriam, two Filipino girls teaching English in Hohot, China and I wanted to head to the Black Market, a venue on the outskirts of Ulanbataar famous for Mongolian handicrafts, crappy haircuts and counterfeit everything.

 

We walked 15 minutes from the UB Guesthouse to the Chinese Market. The sky was clear and the air typically frigid. My exposed nose and cheeks felt the now-familiar numbing sensation of walking outdoors.

 

The Chinese Market is a series of four crumbling concrete pillars in the middle of a square. They appeared to be the remains of a highway overpass, but no four lane highway has ever crossed Mongolia. In the summer Chinese merchants sell imported bok choi and pork. Now the place serves as a gathering place for minibuses, the cheapest form of public transport in the city.

 

Myriam knew the Mongolian name for Black Market, and spoke Russian, the country's most popular second language. She approached the first minibus and said our destination. The driver shook his head and pointed toward the end of the line. She tried the second to the same effect. She kept moving toward the

 

"I don't understand," she said, in her German-accented English. "Last week they were all going to the Black Market."

 

We decided to hail a cab.

 

Two minutes later a late-model mint Nissan with no markings pulled over. Taxis aren't regulated in Mongolia, so anyone with a set of wheels and time to kill can be a taxi driver. We agreed on a price of 1,800T a person to the market - about $1.50, and started inching our way through the heavy Ulanbataar traffic.

 

The driver immediately took out a cell phone and starting chatting. Talking and driving are pretty common in this part of the world - Eliot Spitzer isn't in charge - and didn't really pay attention until the driver passed the phone to Myriam.

 

I could hear a man's voice talking loudly in choppy English on the other end of the line. Myriam had to ask her questions repeatedly, but eventually she was able to hang up the phone.

 

"The Black Market is closed for Tsagan Zar," she said, "We need to get out of the taxi."

 

Thank goodness for English-speaking friends.

Supermarket Sweeps

BOSTON – After a long, arduous journey, I have made it out of the wilderness. I went to a Trader Joe's.

Trader Joe's is a supermarket, but that's like saying brie is a type of cheese. Joe's is market with specialty foods in Coolidge Corner, a fashionable part of the Bostonian suburb of Brookline.

The cornucopia of foods available include eight Merlots, Greek style yogurt and a whole aisle of fruit leather. I heard someone ask an employee, "Where are your Thai dumplings?" (Answer: Aisle 7.) All the creature comforts are here, plus items that can make a long day at work more tolerable: heat-and-serve masala, for instance.

Every country on Earth now has a supermarket, even Taiyuan, China. I stopped into the Taiyuan store to purchase a few supplies for an overnight train to Zhengzhou in May. Taiyuan is the dry, dusty capital of China's Shanxi province. It is the third-most polluted city in the world, and is almost completely without charm. My view of the city skyline was blocked out by a dust storm. Taiyuan's supermarket matches the end-of-the-Earth feeling of the city. Partially open containers of crackers were $0.50, melted chocolates around $1. I grabbed a couple dusty plastic bottles of water and bought dinner next door at a KFC knockoff.

A week later I was back in Hong Kong, the city of Wellcome. As I've mentioned before, Wellcome is a clean, rather Western store. But the Western trapping means its shortcomings can be more apparent. There's no sharp cheddar cheese or couscous. Apples are the nuclear Granny Smith variety or include a worm. Don't even think about buying grapes. I refuse to buy seafood from any tanks that include frogs.

From Hong Kong it was on to Kansas, and the Super Wal-Mart. Wal-Mart's made large strides in its grocery business since 2000 - it now accounts for 40% of Wichita's grocery sales. Food at Wal-Marts tends to be in about a dozen aisles near the entrance. Prices are low, but there isn't the variety found in a traditional American supermarket. Forget about gourmet anything, and stock up on all the $0.30 taquitos you can eat. There's no couscous here, either.

So now I'm in Boston, happy as a pig in shit, because here's grocery store not only has couscous, but 15 varieties of it.

Excuse me, you're a little close

BOSTON - Shaws supermarket, 7:00 P.M, on a Thursday evening.

I'm picking up a few dinner essentials: chicken breast, roasted potatoes, apples and a few cans of seltzer. I decide, in the interest of time, to use the self-checkout.

Waiting in line, my thoughts turn to Chinese class. There's an oral exam this week which I've haven't studied for and will probably screw up, an upcoming skit project and I don't have a partner yet and a slew of character-copying to do.

"Excuse me. You're a little close."

I look up. A woman, in her late 20s with a very cropped haircut has turned around in the line to chastise me. Apparently I'm invading her personal bubble.

I'm not touching of her or even in danger of touching her. I am perhaps a foot away from her leg. But it's too close.

I mumble an apology and step back. But why should I? The concept of "personal space" is largely an Victorian construct. In China and elsewhere people crowd in large masses, standing close. There's little queuing, and when there is people make sure no one can butt the line.

So why shouldn't I stand close? I'm only trying to show her the rest of the world.