Chinese Impressionism

 I just don’t know how to react, so laughter is the only answer.  There are a group of rather beautiful Chinese girls gathered in a neat semi-circle around our table.  They are all dressed in the same sexy outfits and they’re singing ‘I’m a little teapot’ – including choreographed dance movements.  This can only mean one thing.  I’m in Shanghai Hooters.  Most Australian men have heard of this American franchise and have impressions of busty women being flirtatious in what is essentially a bar that serves a range of hot snack food.  All of those impressions are clearly radically incorrect given the example in front of me now.
“Hey, Dhuges, tell them it’s your birthday, it’s brilliant!”, Ray advises me mischieviously.  After they finish their performance we all clap and cheer uproariously and I sip at my beer again remembering Ray had told us we had to come here, but not why exactly.  When our waitress comes by again I tell her it is indeed my birthday and she turns up the flirting even more.
“I’ll tell the girls and we’ll give you our special song later!”
Even as she’s talking some unfeasibly loud American pop music starts on the sound system and she leaves to join all the girls taking up their positions around the bar.  They are standing on top of bar stools so everyone can see their sexy dance moves matching the blaring soundtrack.  More than half the men in the place suddenly have cameras of all kinds in their hands taking pictures and videos of the moment.

We order some chicken wings and I ask for the hottest version they have.  What returns are a set of wings that are covered in a concentrated chilli and spice paste so hot that just bringing it near your faces makes your eyes water.  I love it, but an only handle a few of them and everybody else sets about ordering the mild version.  One of the girls is now standing next to a nearby table and clapping her hands.  One by one all the girls move to join her, each one clapping their hands in unison until the crew is summoned.  Then the first girl announces that these guys wanted a song, so they’re going to give him a happy one.  It turns out to be a kind of Hooters Girl cheerleading chant, again with matching sexy dance moves.  Again the whole place is laughing uproariously and taking pictures.

There aren’t that many people inside and I’m surprised that the vast majority are Chinese; our group are the only foreigners for most of the night.  Ray tells me they had a work dinner here that was arranged by one of the Chinese girls in the office.
“Did she know what Hooters is?”, I ask incredulously.
“Well, apparently she did….but Hooters here just isn’t the same as the original version.”
“Well, I’m sure that’s true, not that I’ve ever been to one before.”
“Yeah, me neither, this is it.”
Maybe our impressions were wrong, maybe this is what Hooters is meant to be.  A strange combination of innocence and salaciousness put together in a way only the Chinese could manage.  Luckily we have an American guy with us so we consult him.
“Nope, this is nothing like how they run it.  Having the girls sing and dance is…. weird…maybe in some of them they do it, but not any I’ve been in…and certainly not nursery rhymes… that’s.. I don’t know what that is.”

I start to look around again as the girls are gathering at our table to sing me ‘Happy Birthday’.  The costumes are right and our waitress is being obviously flirty.  The jugs of beer are American style and size and the décor looks like what I’ve seen in pictures.  But… but the whole thing seems like an artist’s impression of the idea.  There’s no real content, everything is contrived purely appearance and nothing more.  They dance the agreed moves together, but without conviction or real pleasure.  They flirt and pout and pose, but it’s definitely a half-rehearsed show.  Ray is busily telling the girls to sign my shirt and our waitress wants me to buy a Hooters shirt before they’ll sign it.
“Do you have one that will actually fit me?”
She looks at my gargantuan frame and decides not.  She produces a permanent marker and signs her name on my back, as do all the girls.  The feeling of having seven girls writing on your back at some time is strangely sensual.  A little ticklish, but very comfortable.

Eventually the place closes for the night and we’re the last patrons, we’ve been continually trying to get them to sing for us again and enjoying it afresh every time they do.  At one point they have another foreigner standing on a chair as they all sing to him before he blows out the candles on his birthday cake.  It’s been a strangely amusing and thoroughly enjoyable time seeing the Chinese interpretation of American redneck culture.  I highly recommend it – and don’t forgot to choose who’s birthday it is before you go in…

Who am I in China?

“You need to get some business cards mate.”
I look across the room in his office and raise an eyebrow at Ray.
“You know I’m not working for quite a while yet.”
“Yeah, yeah, yeah…. But everyone has them here, personal ones and then one for every business they’re involved in.”
“Yeah right”, I nod, thinking what I would put on a business card now. 
After fifteen years in the IT world I’m taking a break from normal working life to explore what the rest of the world has going on.  I wouldn’t call myself an IT Professional right now, but what can I put on the card instead? How do I define myself now? Who am I when I’m not working?

I must look particularly confused as I ponder this, because Ray continues,
“Hey, just put your name and your Chinese mobile number, maybe your email if you want.  You’ll find it really handy when you meet anyone here.  Seriously, everyone does it, check out mine.”
Ray produces his work and private cards and I read through them slowly, considering the layout and content to decide what I would put on it.  Ray works for an Australian based company that builds architectural models.  He’s one of those guys who is a genius with his hands, he can do anything, make anything and do both unbelievably well.  If he can picture it, he can produce it.  So he used to work for these guys making the models, but now it’s all about running quality control on the Chinese factories that do a lot of work now.

None of this is really helping with my newfound identity crisis.  Maybe I can say I’m an Abalone diver.  Apparently they do alright and it sounds like a cool job title.  But Chinese people might take me too seriously and try to get me to work for them doing that.  So I need something that sounds good, but gives me freedom to move; something that will explain to the people of China who I am and what I do.  Maybe I’m a writer.  That’s a great profession for travellers with no particular date to return home.  Then no-one will question why I’m wandering aimlessly around China.  I like the sound of it and look up again.
“Okay mate, you talked me into it …. so how can I get them made?”
“Ahh..too easy…”
He bundles over to his assistant Jessica and asks her if she can organize it for me.  She comes over with a card and a pen and asks me to write what I want to have on it.  I have a new inspiration as the pen touches my hand and I fill in all the details.
“Do you want me to translate it into Chinese too?”, she asks.
“I suppose I do…oh I already have a Chinese name that this crazy girl I travelled with in Australia gave me.”
I do my best impression of it and she eventually recognises and adds it.
“And what’s this?”, she asks pointing to my new identity.
“That’s my job, just put it somewhere on the card.”
She looks confused, but smiles and does it without understanding; as the Chinese do.  I ask for it to be on a red card with gold letters (I’ve heard that’s particularly auspicious in China) and she heads off to the shop downstairs that makes them.  She calls back to tell me the ‘gold’ they have looks like a bad yellow.  I choose to use black writing instead.  I always liked red and black together.

Two hundred cards arrive later and I pick the one from the top of the stack to give to Ray.
“Here ya go mate, you can have the first one.”
Ray looks at it and reads it through then starts chuckling and looks up at me smiling.
“Nice one, that works.”
There in the bottom right corner in english and chinese are the words I’ve chosen to tell the people of China who I am.
“Crazy Penguin.”

No Problem, this is China.

We stop in traffic and I glance out the window. I'm soon transfixed by the crazy moment I've just joined. There is a young chinese man sitting on top of a makeshift wooden ladder - it appears to have been his last project. He is intently focused on cutting the top off a metal lamppost using an old hacksaw. I watch for a little while wondering why he wants to cut the top off a perfectly good lamppost. I mean, it's decorative, functional, what does he have against it? Then I consider that the cables that provide power to those lights must run through the middle of the pole. The pole he’s cutting with a metal saw. Are we about to witness a public electrocution?

I turn to my friend in the car and ask,
“Hey Ray… Can you tell me why he’s cutting the top off this lamppost?”
Ray turns and looks puzzled for a minute, then a huge smile breaks across his face.
“Nope. No idea at all. I told you you’re gonna see something crazy almost every day you're here.”
“Well yes.. but.. I mean.. what could he possibly achieve by cutting it off? What problem is he trying to fix? And is he about to cut the cables and jump around for our viewing pleasure?”
Ray turns around fully now and leans forward to consider the situation.
“Nope. No idea. Maybe we should stop him or something.”
“Can we ask the driver? Or maybe Jessica knows?”
Ray turns to consult his assistant and translator the lovely Jessica, a Jiangsu local from nearby Shanghai where we are now. She talks to the driver, who is a local Shanghainese man. The net conclusion is that of the four people in the car, none of us can comprehend the slightest reason for the scene before us.
“Don’t think about it too hard mate”, Ray offers, “If you do, you’re gonna be properly crazy in a month or two.”
I ponder the likelihood of that and turn back to watch our man. He has stopped sawing about halfway through the pole and is now examining the hacksaw blade. By the look of it, it was handed down from his grandfather - it’s probably the original blade. Our car gently moves forward again and we leave him to his destiny. Ray grabs my shoulder and gives me the phrase I’m going to repeat to myself daily for months,
“No problem, this is China.”