Lost on Planet China - J. Maarten Troost [62]
There was also an exhibition detailing Buddhist influence in China, and as I peered at the display, I listened to an American man explain its contents to the Chinese woman beside him.
“And what is this? This is the bodhisattva. He received enlightenment under a tree. I have a leaf from the actual tree. It’s in Sri Lanka. Remember? I showed it to you. And now,” he said, pointing to a statue. “You know what this is? Yes? We’ve discussed this before.”
What is it about Shanghai that elicits this need in the Western male to inform, to enlighten, the locals? I could not understand it myself. Indeed, my general state of being in China could best be described as one of bewildered ignorance. But perhaps this resort to pedantry was simply their reaction to a similar sense of befuddlement. I can’t tell the difference between the Ming and the Qing Dynasties, but did you know that suits come either single-breasted or double-breasted?
I walked out and followed Nanjing Xi Lu toward Jing’an Park, and all the while tried to remind myself that the average monthly income of a typical resident of Shanghai is only about $300. In this sparkling stretch of Shanghai, it appeared one would need to add a few zeros to that income. There were Chinese fashionistas tottering down the sidewalk wearing Prada and Armani. On the road, there was a preponderance of Mercedeses. I even saw a limousine. At Jing’an Park, I had expected to find a quiet temple, but instead I’d found four statues of punk rockers next to a plaza featuring a basketball demonstration game played to the thumping beats of American gangster rap emanating at sonic levels from a massive boom box. It really is so easy to be weirded out in China. As I watched these ball players dunking and competing to see who could get their head above the rim, I spent a few minutes deciphering lyrics. Motherfuckin’, hustle, guns, shit, homicide. Women in my life causing me confusion and shit. Sell my weapon. Fuck you. Fuck you.
Excellent, I thought. The Europeans could take confidence in the allure of their products in China, but Americans could at least take pride knowing they were winning the battle for hearts and minds here.
But there were more curiosities to be found. On the sidewalk, an elderly woman with a headband inscrolled with Chinese characters and a sign pasted to her shirt, was loudly and theatrically complaining about something. I stopped to watch. So, too, did others. Nothing stops a crowd in China like a really angry person. I approached a fashionably dressed woman, thinking that the wearing of fine clothes might have some correlation to knowledge of the English language.
“Yes. I speak a little,” she confirmed.
“May I ask you something? What is this lady saying?”
“Her dialect is difficult to understand. But she is saying that she is not happy with the Party. She says they are not fair.” Pause. “She says that they murdered her husband.”
“Ah…I see. And does she say why the Party murdered her husband?”
“I am sorry. She is very difficult to understand. She does not speak the Shanghai dialect.”
“Do you think the police will bother her, or is it okay in China today to stand on busy street corners and accuse the Party of murdering people?”