The Trashman Gets Busted

Today the Trashman got busted. Let me explain.

The Trashman is the eighty year-old guy who lives next door to me. Every time I see him on the stairs or in front of the building I say, "There goes the Trashman" or in Chinese "你好，垃圾人”.

The Trashman's day consists of dozens, if not hundreds, of short trips to the collection of trash bins in the center of our apartment complex. As a matter of fact, I can always be sure that if I am taking out my trash, he is either there fishing for trash or on his way back (with his arms full of trash) to his apartment.

In the beginning, I thought this was strange. The front door of the Trashman's apartment is usually open. When I have friends over, they get a look at the Trashman's kitchen. It is packed with--you guessed it--trash. They ask me, "How can he live like that?" and say "He must be a little crazy."

I am used to the Trashman. Despite his habit, you could say he is a sweet old man. Every morning, I do taiji in front of our building, and almost every morning, the Trashman walks by, his hands full of his catch for the morning, and he smiles at me, like the Buddha of Trash.

The Trashman's operation is multifaceted. He uses a corner of the garden in front of our building as a station where he dumps trash and sorts through it. At least he doesn't want to dump those rotting fish innards and papaya rinds on his kitchen floor. The other day, I was doing taiji and suddenly smelled something terrible. Sure enough, the Trashman was in his corner, cracking open a new shipment. It definitely affected my qi.

The Trashman has always had an operation on the bottom landing of our building. He has a small stool and he sorts through all his wares there. A little pile of plastic bottles, paper, all kinds of shit. Usually, it is hard to walk out of the building. But, he politely steps aside so I can get through.

In the mornings, when I am cooking my breakfast, I look through the window and see him bringing his haul in. I realize that everyone has their routine, their work, their livelihood--something that keeps them going everyday. Some might say that the work of the advertising executive is unnecessary, that it is "Vanity, all vanity" as one famous dude in the Ecclesiastes once said.

Yet, perhaps in whatever we find that keeps our interest, maybe there is something holy. Maybe it keeps us going, looking forward to the next day. It keeps us curious, young, keeps that spark in our eyes. Michael Jordan would spend hours and hours on layups and jumpshots. The Trashman has his own practice.

Sometimes I find myself wondering, "What kind of stories does the Trashman have?"

Up until last month, there hasn't been much of a smell. Only a little inconvenience because the Trashman's annex at the bottom of our building has gradually gotten larger. And if he wants to keep his kitchen knee deep in trash, what business is that of mine?

But recently, there has been a smell. And I have wondered why no one has said anything.

I thought, well, this is China. The rules are different here. I figure no one has said anything because, perhaps, people think this is normal. You know, all that suffering for the past sixty years and that Cultural Revolution--peoples' thresholds are different here.

It's true, China is opening up. But while you can build skyscrapers and shopping centers like Xintiandi, it takes a little more time for peoples' thinking to change. Think, "another generation."

Any foreigner living here knows what I am talking about. In the beginning, it's a bit apalling, but you get used to it. People spitting. Parents holding their kids while they pee in a corner of the subway station. A guy sitting across from me in the school cafeteria from me shoveling down his food with chopsticks, directly from his plate into his mouth.

It doesn't really phase me anymore, especially since I have made friends here and see the good that exists here, the humanity.

So, the smell isn't that bad, this sorting through the trash is probably keeping this sweet old guy alive, and besides, I think, he is doing a hell of a recycling job. Save the earth!

This morning, though, while doing taiji, two official-looking dudes and a lady descend on the Trashman and start lightly scolding him in Shanghainese (actually, to tell you the truth, I can't honestly tell you if they were scolding him, because everything said in Shanghainese sounds like a scolding). But I think they are telling him, "Look, guy, you can't do this."

Suddenly a woman yells from her window high in the building across from us. In a few minutes, she's down talking to the dudes and the lady, telling them something obviously related to the Trashman. They all look at the rags that the Trashman has hung on the tree across from our apartment (I forgot to tell you about the trash-hanging operation). A bamboo pole with about fifteen small white rages hanging from balances on two trees. Sometimes, the Trashman dries newspapers.

People walk by and linger. I want to put in my word, so I grab one of the dudes and tell him, "I am his neighbor. I just want to tell you that if I leave, no foreigner seeing all that trash in the front of our building will want to rent my apartment, and my landlord will be very upset."

The dude is very nice and says they are trying to take care of the problem. He tells me that someone else in the building complained of the smell and the trash on the landing. I go back to doing my taiji, away from the group of people who have assembled in front of my apartment. It looks cathartic.

The nice old lady who doesn't speak Mandarin (only Shanghainese) in the next building over sees me doing my taiji and she starts talking to me in what sounds like very heavily accented Mandarin, only some of which I can understand. She says, "He is crazy, he is crazy!" (“病了病了！”） and "I always see you doing taiji every morning--good job!".

There's an older man, let's call him Da Ye, about sixty, in our building who is always talking to the Trashman. He comes back and see the ruckus and starts arguing (again, it's Shanghainese, so for all I know, he was reciting Tang love poetry). I know that he is the Trashman's friend. I assume that in a very Confucian way, he is doing his best to honor the elderly and honor his neighbor. He helps the old man clean up.

Later today, I return home and see Da Ye and the Trashman doing more cleanup. I feel relieved and hope there won't be so much trashing lying around and I won't have to smell some of those smells. I see them bring back an old, battered suitcase from the trash bins. I go out to get dinner and see the big suitcase in the Trashman's kitchen.

Somehow, I don't think that Buddha smile has left the Trashman's face. He hasn't really said a word today, as usual. He just smiles at people. I figure tomorrow morning, he will be at it again, running a tighter, leaner operation, but nevertheless, still in business.

You got to keep on going.

A Walk in the Park

My Chinese reading class at the university has been cancelled this morning, so instead of practicing taiji in my little xiao qu (neighborhood) in front of my apartment, I go to Fu Xing Park. I ride my bike there and find a spot to do taiji.

In the background, I can hear retired people singing in a chorus, and in every direction there are people practicing taiji. Next to me there is a young Chinese man in his late 20s practicing taiji. As soon as I see his movements, I know he is practicing the same style as I do, wu shi, as I do. Shanghai is a center for Wu style taiji, so this is not uncommon.

I start doing my stretches and watch this guy practice. He looks like a beginner just like me. Behind me, there's an older man, probably in his late 60s. He looks at the young man and it looks like he is imitating his movements. He doesn't look like he's been practicing very long, but I figure, better late than never.

After my stretches, I go up to the young man and ask him if he wants to practice the basic form together. He asks me "Which form?" I say Wu style and tell him who my teacher is. He tells me that he practices Wu style and that his teacher is right behind us! It's the old man. In fact, his teacher is probably the most senior Wu style teacher of southern style Wu taiji in Shanghai!

We practice together and his teacher, seeing me practice, asks his student where this laowai studied. I'm sure he can tell that I am only a beginner. My new young friend tells him who my teacher is. In his lineage my teacher would be considered a "nephew." We are essential "family."

After we practice, I ask my friend to introduce me to his teacher, Zhou Laoshi, and we begin talking. A few old men join in our conversation. Zhou Laoshi asks me if I have done some other martial arts, and I tell him I studied aikido for a few years. He asks me to do push-hands, tuishou, with him so he can feel my level, but I have never done tuishou. He say, "Just do aikido." And so, I practice aikido with him.

He is what you would expect a taiji master to be. My big samurai moves are nothing for him. You expect him to fall back, but instead you find yourself falling back. There is no resistance, but at the same time he is strong. I've never explored this martial aspect of taiji, and I'm inspired.

As usual, the old guys think it's cool that I'm a laowai who does taiji. We talk about martial arts, Chinese medicine, calligraphy (shufa), and more. They tell me to come back and practice some more with them.

I get back on my bike and return home. On the way, I realize that there's no use in seeking any kind of peak experiences, of planning a "glorious life" in the conventional way. Maybe that's the way I was when I was when I was a young punk living in Upper Haight in San Francisco, but thankfully, life has its way of wearing down your rough edges (and I think I've got a hell of lot more to go!).

This morning, my Chinese class was cancelled. All I had to do was to take a walk in the park, and life naturally presented me with aliveness, warmth, and some new friends.

The Precious Korean Boy

A company has hired me to teach business English to one of their up-and-coming managers. From Korea, he and his family have just relocated to Shanghai. Like most Asian managers, he's got his bad speaking habits. He doesn't know when to use the present perfect and when to use the present continuous. He gets lazy and drops things like the "s" on the end of words and those annoying prepositions. He needs my help.

I go to his house in a wealthy section of Shanghai once a week and his wife gives us tea and I teach him. His young son, about three years-old, always greets me--he's shy but he always has a big smile. I've been teaching at their house a few times, so he is used to me. This time, he gives me "five" and I pat him on the head and smile back. He is supercute and his smile gets bigger every time I see him.

At the end of our lesson today, my student, who is in his early thirties and is exhausted from his recent business trip to Europe, tells me of something that happened in his son's nursery school class this week. Since it's almost Father's Day, the teacher asked the children to talk about what Daddy does at home. Some kids said their dad fixes things, helps clean up, reads me stories, plays with me, etc. But when the teacher asked my student's boy this question, he started crying.

My student said that his son was sad because he didn't know what his daddy does at home. The fact is, his daddy comes home late and often goes on business trips. I imagine that this is quite common in Asia (as it is everywhere in the world).

To imagine this precious boy crying in class was a little heartbreaking. I know his dad works really hard to be successful so he can be a good husband and father. The pressure is incredible. I know, because every week I hear stories of his corporate battles (in English).

But, somehow, I hope he will be able to spend some more time with that beautiful boy of his.

First Taste of Yangmei Berries

It's early June in Shanghai, and you know what that means. It means that the short, bronzed waidi ren from the provinces who live in Shanghai start selling cherries and yangmei. They carry them on their shoulders on a bamboo pole, two baskets swinging beneath, one with cherries and one with yangmei. You can find them on street corners or on the sidewalk your way to take the subway.

What is yangmei, you ask? Well, in my opinion, yangmei (also called red bayberry in English) is the most beautiful of fruits (although you have to admit, most fruits are beautiful, aren't they?). They're deep wine red-purple, a berry, a little larger than a cherry, with a textured surface like some exotic sea creature.

For a few weeks after they appeared on the streets of Shanghai in late May, I got curious about them, and then one day, while walking on Yan An Road, I saw one of those hardy waidiren selling them. "How much?" I ask. "Ten kuai for a jin (about a dollar and change for a pound)," he says. "I'll take a jin," I say.

He pours a basket into a bag and hands it to me, charging me for two jin. I can't tell you how Shanghai this is, but I am used to it, so I just say to him, calmly, "I'll take a jin." He's obviously disappointed, and he pours out half the bag. I put my yangmei in the basket of my bike. It's a beautiful summer day in Shanghai and I get to ride through the tree-lined streets of the French Concession, anticipating my first bite of yangmei.

I finally get home twenty minutes later, wash them, and taste. They are wonderful. Sweet, juicy, and just a little tart. For the next day, I eat my yangmei. I give one to a friend and she says, "You got some good yangmei."

A few days pass and I want to get more before the season passes and they're no longer available. So, while shopping in the upscale grocery store near my house, I pick up some more. Once again, I take them home, wash them, and then take a bite of the new batch.

They're all too sour and not sweet at all. I eat a few, hoping that there will be a sweet one in there, but they're all disappointing. I throw them away.

Today, while waiting for the light to turn green on Huang Pi Road, I notice another yangmei/cherry vendor. "How much is a jin?" I ask. I can see him thinking for a second, wondering how much his markup should be because I am a foreigner. "Thirteen kuai," he finally spits out. This is at least seven kuai more than I would pay in a typical fruit stand. In a generous mood, I tell him ten and he gives them to me.

I lovingly take the bag of yangmei with me on the subway, get off at my stop, and walk them home. I wash them and take a bite. They're better than those sour berries from the frufru supermarket, but they still aren't close to my first bite.

I'm thankful for those first berries and I figure, with any luck, perhaps next year, I'll taste them again. In the meantime, I still have a few more to eat of this last bag of yangmei.