The young conductress looked more like a poor little match girl than the confident, almost imperial figures I associate with the traditional conductress on the Beijing Buses. The latter were Amazons with beady eyes who ruled their carriages with an iron sway. Their buses were rickety and liable to break down relatively frequently, but, to the ladies who held sway at the door, their bus was a personal “Forbidden City” and they were its’ Dowager Empress. Some made the effort to feminise the rather utilitarian coaches with flowers or banners, but even without these attempts at personalising the work space, one was under no doubt t as to whose territory one was in, and woe betide the mere mortal who did not kowtow before her. This girl was not in the same league. Her bus is one of a shiny new bus fleet which has replaced the clapped out contraptions of only a few years ago. The new models have a very strong corporate stamp to them and one feels that any attempt on her part to personalise this work spaces would be frowned upon by the “suits” in head office. Nothing should distract us from the flat screen TVs pouring advertisements over us as we trundle, relatively speedily it must be said, towards our destinations. She looked more kitchen maid than empress; there has definitely been a change in mandate from Heaven and she has been kicked off her celestial throne.

Her hunched up posture was unlike those of her predecessors who managed always to tower over us mere passengers. Their beady eyes constantly scanned the hoards as they mounted the bus and swift punishment followed those who those how failed to produce evidence of payment. During a longer gap between stops, they would descend to the level of the passengers, bearing their symbol of office, a heavy duty leather pouch, and sweep through the bus, scouting for miscreants. One was expected to produce one’s flimsy ticket, which I invariably could not find. t. However my western face had usually registered on purchase and I was exempt. For the poor Chinese, the story was different. Although nothing as crass as an accusation was ever made when no ticket was offered, one would see grown men, sheepishly proffering up their 1 yuan and listening like chastened schoolboys to the deliberately loud injunction to pay up promptly the next time. In a society where public humiliation is the worst possible punishment, it worked as a disincentive to fare avoidance. My young friend had no such presence about her. A smart card system has largely shorn her of her ticketing responsibilities, and while some of the old hands still keep a practiced eye on the scanning machines, this neophyte seemed unequal to the task and had simply given up. She looked too scared to risk leaving her conductress box and since there is no way of checking the cards she would have to take the word of the passenger in any case. That the fares have been reduced more than 50% in a time of rising inflation makes the effort seem pointless to her perhaps.

She tried, in a rather desultory way to announce the bus stops and direct us to the relevant exits. But her heart wasn’t in it and she could barely be heard. So unlike her elder sisters! They had voices and they knew how to use them. The lambasting that awaited the young person who failed to give up their seat to an elderly “comrade” (the only situation where I ever heard this now quaint title for a citizen being used) was quite serious and even the deafest of passengers was never in doubt as to the next stop. Occasionally one would come across a particularly piercing enunciation which one felt could cut steel. While having to endure its temporary impact, I would raise a silent prayer for the husband that it might never be directed to him. The same voice could part the sea of bicycles as the bus pulled up to a stop, murmuring an indistinct but recognisable incantation into a microphone that miraculously causes the bicycles to weave effortlessly around the bus. My conductress doesn’t need that voice, either to chastise callous youths, the buses are usually too crowed for the elderly to receive such attention, and the bicycle streams have disappeared, swallowed up by prosperity (in the major cities at least). So instead she sat, hardly bothering to mouth, let alone speak the Chinese equivalent of “mind the doors” and instead took refuge in frequent sips from a huge tea flask, the only moment of obvious connection with her Amazonian predecessors.

I felt sorry for my “poor little match girl”. I have been luxuriating in the many advantages which the shiny new bus services have brought me. However, in her I saw the impact on the operators of the new Olympic ready bus system. Her elder sisters exuded a sense of competent responsibility, but she was tied to the drudgery of a very basic assembly line, and clearly had dumbed down to its level. I have been blessed with opportunities and stretching challenges all my life and I thank God for them, but it was salutary to get a sense of how cushioned I am from match girl realities, where one may never get on the first rung of the ladder of opportunity which is being created here. I hope, I pray that somehow God will show me how do more than just observe from a distance, shyly almost, the “match people” of modern China and in his grace actually be present with them in more than the fleeting solidarity that comes from a mumbled Xie Xie as I get off the bus. If only one knew how.

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Tags: Beijing Diaries, bricks, Robert Hannah

When you know that the Bird’s Nest is a contrast, not a compliment, to the lifestyles of many in China, it’s easy to be po-faced about the Olympics and the impression given of First World sophistication. Lost in one’s reverse snobbery, one can end up underselling the positive impact of that extraordinary event.

My own epiphany came in the Underground, only a week ago. In the crowded passageways, I suddenly found my way blocked by a lady being pushed in a wheelchair. Suppressing, for the sake of charity, the minor burst of impatience that began to well up inside, I looked instead for a way past.  Suddenly it struck me that I had never seen a person in a wheelchair using the Underground before. I began to take a new interest in the couple in front of me and I allowed my pace to match theirs.  They seemed rather lost, but eventually negotiated the corridors to arrive, coincidentally, at the train I too wanted to board. Fellow passengers adjusted to the mild inconvenience of their presence on the crowded train, staff was positively helpful and, for the most part, the pair seemed to be making their way unassisted.  Eventually, they left the train as effortlessly as they had alighted and went their way. A Beijing first and all as a result of the Olympics.

I have spoken of the Games related additions to the Subway system before, namely the upgraded security, but perhaps even more revolutionary has been the introduction of stair lifts at many of the stations and the provision of an ingenious stair climber in other places.  The former is a rather more industrial version of those found in many homes now, and the latter is a contraption I had never seen before which can be wheeled to the beginning of a stair well, and allows a wheel chair-bound individual to be transported up or down  effortlessly.  They are not available everywhere, but they are to be had at the major stations and allows those in wheelchairs to access the system.  Up to this, the otherwise excellent Underground could not have been described as disabled friendly.

Access to public transport is just one of the challenges facing China’s 60 million disabled people.  Were one to look only at the legal code, the impression is of enlightened attention to their needs. The realities are less impressive. Many of the legal mandates remain aspiration. What services that are available are often confined to the urban areas, with few, if any, supports available to the rural disabled.  When one realizes that 56% of China’s population lives in the countryside, it shows how many are outside the loop. A Government Sponsored NGO exists to promote care of the disabled, but the top down approach is not complimented by a vibrant grass roots network promoting change.

The driver for the transformations of the situation in Beijing has been  the 2008 Games, the Paralympics in particular. It was perhaps a face saving exercise, one could hardly host a “Games for the disabled and have no access to the Transport System, but a year from now, that will seem immaterial. What will remain is a new mobility and extended range for people who, till now, could not easily move beyond their homes.  During the Olympics one saw many foreigners in wheelchairs but they were expected, and seemed an extension of the unreal quality of the Olympics month.  But the Olympics are over and this erstwhile po- faced observer is delighted to find that the legacy is more than a rather inaccurate impression of First World grandeur.

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Tags: Beijing Diaries, bricks, olympics, people with disabilities, Robert Hannah

The hoarding was rather ambitious given the simplicity of the circumstances. The hole in the wall below the sign did not match its extravagant claim. In fact the frontage of the restaurant was the back wall of an older, now demolished, building. Mr. Li has simply broken a door through to a covered yard, set up tables and continued his dumpling business. Ingenious perhaps but hardly suggesting blue blood. I did not see a health and safety certification but I am confident that if one had been refused, a small gift would have smoothed the path to certification. Judging from appearances I very much doubt that Mr. Li is really the dumpling King.

Mr. Li’s rather artless claim could not be considered as false advertising even in the most rigorous of regulatory environments. Unfortunately in China, the kind of confidence one has in advertising claims even by established brands is often misplaced and the supervision lax in the extreme. Until recently, I had taken a rather indulgent view of fake brands, since in the markets famous for such items, one gets no less than what you pay for. Government campaigns against the practice seemed more token than real, judging by the speed with which things returned to “normal” after the campaigns were over. For years people have been talking about the problem I did not appreciate the complexity of the issue.

A recent scandal has put the issue into a different perspective. A mysterious illness that has so far killed 4 babies resulted from wholesale contamination of the food chain. Reputable companies have been found to have sold milk powder which had been contaminated by fraudulent whole-milk suppliers. Local officials were prepared to bury the issue, and a New Zealand business partner had to go through convoluted diplomatic channels to inform the Chinese Central Government of the problem. Now a very thorough and transparent cleanup process is in play, but not before credibility in the milk supply has completely disappeared. The latest addition to those affected is Starbucks China who has very publicly announced a shift to new source for its milk products. It seems brand reputation and good enforcement of regulation are no laughing matter.

Government health standards are set centrally and are often in line with international best practice. They are rendered toothless however by endemic cronyism at the local level. In the case of the Milk Scandal, there are standards, but the petty criminality of two brothers in Hebei have undermined confidence in the national milk supply system and taken the edge of the feel-good factor engendered by Olympic successes. When the economy was less integrated, the impact of such fraud was minimal, but in a rapidly expanding and globalizing economy, small-scale corruption in the provinces can have national impact. The willingness to ignore the poor compliance record at a local level, is no longer sustainable when the consequences are so devastating.

I would bet that Mr. Li dumplings despite his claims, are not that good, but China is not going stay awake nights worrying about it. Nationally branded companies who proclaim their quality on hoardings across the country while delivering tainted product into the market place are a different matter. Of equal concern is the failure of government agencies to address the problem until pressure to do so came from the highest level. Pulling off a brilliant Olympics is not the only mark of a developed country. Brand confidence and a good regulatory framework are important also. I think I will be drinking my Starbuck’s Latte black until both of those are firmly in place.

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Tags: Beijing Diaries, bricks, capitalism, corruption, Hebei

It was the annual diocesan pilgrimage and the crowd of more than 5,000 pilgrims were in festive mood. The Mass on the 8th of September was the high point of the three days of celebration. The setting was perfect, a tree-lined valley where, even without the addition of a well designed Lourdes Grotto, the veil between earth and heaven seems particularly thin. The bishop’s sermon was perhaps a little pious, but the delivery was firm and the tone commanding, hinting at the steel in his velvet words. The congregation were actively attentive and the ushers had almost to beat the faithful back as they tried to touch his robes at the end of the celebration. Within an hour, the crowds had thinned to a few hundred hard core devotees in front of the grotto, some praying, others singing songs and the rest eating packed lunches. In a while even they would be gone, bus bound for remote villages, shriven, nourished and ready to face the challenges of living the Christian life. It was a very successful annual pilgrimage.

The pilgrimage could have taken place almost anywhere in the Catholic world, the dynamic is instantly recognisable. I could have been in the West of Ireland not the North East of China. I find it somehow reassuring that the Catholicism of two such different places could have such similarities. Commentators, who tend to be more educated than the communities they are observing, usually highlight contrast, and take on a slightly superior view when introducing local customs of far away places. On a mild September morning, I saw only the familiar, and strangely comforting, folk Catholicism that was struggling but still vibrant in my 60’s west of Ireland childhood. I don’t think the feeling was simply nostalgia, but rather an emotional expression of an opinion I have long had about the importance of popular religion. In a glade in North East China, I might be educationally and culturally miles apart from the peasant women who predominated in the crowd, but when we knelt to recite the Hail Mary, those differences were stripped away and we were sisters and brothers praising the Mother of the Son we all worship.

The fact of this pilgrimage, a very public event, might seem surprising to a Western reader, used to a diet of negative commentary on religious freedom issues in China. In fact, within undeniable constraints, there is a surprising degree of real freedom here. The pilgrimage I participated in took place with the active support of the police. Their presence ensured some measure of coordination in a situation where the crowd was just barely held under control by the familiar rhythms of the liturgy. Also, with the constraints, the Diocese in Jilin is thriving. Through this pilgrimage and other similar events, it is actively bonding the faithful together in a new way. It has to. Religious Freedom, in my opinion, is not the most pressing issue, China is changing very rapidly and so are the needs of the Catholic faithful. The farming women and men were content to come away from a pilgrimage having prayed to Mary and touched the robes of their saintly bishop, but their urbanised sons and daughters will want more. The question remains, can the Church here move quickly enough to provide it?

I came away from this pilgrimage, like my sisters and brothers, both shriven and nourished, but also confident that Our Lady is helping the Diocese of Jilin to find its answers to its challenges. I hope she will, in equal measure, help me find the answers to my own.

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Tags: Beijing Diaries, bricks, folk religion, Jilin, pilgrimage

I was beginning to enjoy this running lark. Muggins, who never voluntarily sees 6.00 am is now regularly up, togged out in (don’t laugh), running kit and training at this ungodly hour, all part of a schedule for a charity half marathon run in October. The Seminary is quiet at that time; what, were we in Oxford would be called the “quad” is empty and ideal for a practice run. My regular progress in fitness was inviting an almost Palagian confidence in the possibilities of self-improvement. The fall was inevitable but unexpected.

On Tuesday I was ready for a relaxed 20 laps. All warmed up I begin. As usual I began the Rosary crossing the starting line. To those inclined to be impressed I must add a caveat. I count my laps in decades of the Rosary; one lap is enough to get through the prayers and give time for a short reflection at the end. Lap training is very boring and this keeps my mind in gear. At first I was mildly embarrassed to use the Rosary in this way. I say it fitfully at best, despite a theoretical appreciation of the prayer itself and no wish to exclude it from what might be called my prayer life. Over the months of training, I have begun to realize that it wasn’t just a lap counter but was prompting prayerful reflections different from those which I normally associate with my less active recitations of the familiar decades. My most, dare I say profound reflections, given their theme, are perhaps triggered by the aches and pains my poor out-of-shape body is experiencing from all this unfamiliar stressing. The decades which catch me most are the Birth and the Resurrection, with a respectful nod at the Assumption as well.

These days, pushing myself past unfamiliar milestones of endurance, I am all too aware of the limitations of the body, and marvel that God might voluntarily have assumed this condition. I am used to thinking of the Birth of Jesus as God present in the human simplicity of a baby and the pious stories of Mary’s painless delivery all suggest an almost heavenly carnality. Puffing my way round the “quad” I feel my own carnality in an all too earthbound way and when the third Joyful Mystery comes round I marvel, with new intensity, that Jesus could choose to take on such a limiting form.

The first Glorious Mystery provides a far more immediate hope than I normally associate with the theme. Instead of the rather theoretical sense of “life beyond the grave” that I usually link to this core doctrine, these mornings I feel a real delight in the certainty that there is a future for this frail body I am pushing round the track. I am comforted to know that it will find completeness in Paradise that it does not now have. I am not planning charity Marathon’s in the afterlife, but rather derive from these lap-counting reflections on the Resurrection a confidence that all this carnality has an ultimate purpose and will be transcended, not abandoned, come the day.

Coming out the 8th Hail Mary of the Presentation, I pulled a muscle and must rest for a week. This does not put paid to my (half) Marathon hopes, but it is a reminder, if ever I needed one that one cannot move effortlessly from a breathless reflection of the Joyful Mysteries to the sweaty meditation on the Glorious ones, without first going through a painful encounter Sorrow decades. Such are the thoughts of this long distance runner who had expected that Salvation was possible without the Cross; No longer!

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Tags: Beijing Diaries, bricks

Mr. Wang Hong Feng does not look like a dancer. His less than lithe form suggested a sedentary occupation, but he was presented, rather incongruously, as the lead of a trio who would perform a traditional dance. Mr. Wang clearly did not share my reservations and he stood waiting for his cue with the high seriousness of a Nureyev. On cue, he began to move in recognizable but “free” interpretation of the traditional gestures associated with Beijing Opera. A purist might object, but he was actually graceful even if the links to the opera were tenuous at best. His companions, clearly used to his style, gave him as much room to maneuverer as the restricted space allowed and he made maximum use of the opportunity. It wasn’t exactly art, but he was obviously enjoying himself and his mood was infectious. Later Mr. Wang returned to the stage in a moving interpretation of an Aesop’s Fable relocated, I kid you not, to a Spanish bull ring. Dressed as bull, Mr. Wang, with extraordinary pathos, portrayed the pain of the cruel sport, and, after a miraculously recovery from bullfighter’s presumably fatal sword thrust, expressed his forgiveness in an embrace that almost caused injury to his former assailant. By the end of the performance there was not a dry eye in the house.

Tags: Beijing Diaries, bricks, olympics

Returning to Ireland in the 80’s from prosperous London was a shock to the system. One left behind the easy assurance of Kingston for the rather pinched streets of Dublin and at first could not quite source one’s sense of dislocation. A chance visit to an affluent suburb provided the clue. Here, one saw Greek Yogurt, (a Kingston staple at the time)and pots of sun-dried tomatoes on supermarket shelves, delicacies absent from the more financially challenged area in which I had taken up residence. More than that, impressive well manicured buildings diffidently but unmistakeably proclaimed the importance of the affairs been dealt within their walls; whereas dilapidation suggested that little of significance was going on in the rest of pre-Celtic tiger Dublin. The women and men exiting these self-confident structures had about them a suavity in keeping with their surroundings and they picked up Mediterranean dairy products from laden shelves, as if to the manner born. In my area of Dublin, non branded staples from more northern climes were the norm. I adapted in time, and as the transformation of Ireland gathered pace, revisiting “negative equity” London gave one a sense of deja vous all over again.

There was no Greek yogurt on sale on the Olympic Green last week, but the sense of privileged assurance of this suave enclave was reminiscent of 80’s Ballsbridge. The buildings are impressive, but, more than that, the attention to detail is more reminiscent of Japan then China. Even the design and cleanliness of the pavements is of a different order from the norm in this ancient capital. The toilets, always a source of concern, would have caused no anxiety for even the most fastidious of visitors. I would swear that, even though the smog fears have proven groundless, the open spaces were being gently scented from hidden nozzles. The notices in Chinese, English AND French added a certain je ne sais quoi to the place and made it feel as if the glass ceiling to international sophistication has well and truly been breeched.

The denizens of the Green seemed at home in this affluent world. I am not sure what the Chinese equivalent of a sun dried tomato is but they behaved as if they both knew and were on regular shopping terms with what ever it might be. Some were able, by their blue tee shirts, to flaunt their Olympian credentials. These volunteers are everywhere. Universally helpful and competent in at least one foreign language, they are an excellent advertisement for their country. They exude earnest willingness to help and have about them a diffident self-confidence with no displays of the self importance that often comes with a badge or a whistle. I was delighted to hear that the priest-volunteers who serve in the Olympic Religious Centre are making an equally positive impression and fluency in English is being matched by the depth of their preaching. Even the mere mortals who possessed tickets to this Green sanctum seem to belong to another world. The heat makes designer chic irrelevant, but beside my Chinese fellow spectators I felt positively out of place in my thrown together ensemble. Their accents are from across the country, but they act with the easy assurance of people who are chez nous in this setting.

It would be easy to be cynical about this isolated bubble of international standard modernity in contemporary China. However, the Gods who gave Greek Yogurt to all of Dublin by the end of the last century may well choose to extend the self-assurance of the Olympic Green to the whole country by the end of this one. Vive l’avenir.

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Tags: bricks, china.beijing, olympics

The “Bird’s Nest” was not the only shiny new building which debuted for the Olympics. On the south of the city an equally impressive structure has just opened to the public, the very grand South Railway Station. The curves of the new structure are as interesting as those of the much talked of stadium and one feels as if one is in a very modern airport rather than anything as mundane as a the terminus of a rail system. In fact, this is one end of the new fast connection to Beijing’s port city, Tianjin which was unveiled without much fanfare in the days leading up to the Games Opening Ceremony. It may never become as iconic a building as its sporting cousin, but it is perhaps more significant in the long run.

It has become a commonplace for commentators to remark of the scale of the “new Beijing” and it is indeed impressive. My interest in the South Station, and the trains that depart from there is more personal. Fourteen years ago, my first train journey in China was to Tianjin from the main Beijing Station. I remember the taste of coal on the morning air, a ticket that was double the price paid by Chinese nationals and a two hour journey to Tianjin, alone in the rather faded splendour of the “soft seat coach”. In the years since, all of those images have been consigned to the history books. The coal briquettes, whose dust clung to my lungs, have been banished from the city. The special pricing for foreigners has been dropped, and now we must purchase our tickets from the automatic dispensers like the rest of humanity. The train, which would look well alongside anything the French can produce, whisked us to Tianjin in 30 minutes and even the expensive seats are all full.

Many of the changes have been gradual and almost imperceptible, but this latest “Great Leap Forward” is on a different scale. The old Beijing Station has been buffed up numerous times since my first encounter, but, despite the increasing amount of marble and the introduction of a greater variety of concessionary shops, it remains, at heart, a rather clunky leftover from early communist era architecture. It clientele too, remain equally proletarian. Women and men from all corners of China pass though its doors daily, carrying their dreams packed in fertiliser bags. Beijing acts as a magnet for the rural poor and, even without the Statue of Liberty, the main Station is their “Elis Island” entry point to the land of dreams. The South Station is a different world, all glass and steel, with gentle curves and a light airy sensibility. It is the Beijing Terminus of one of the fastest trains in the world, linking Beijing with its shy twin Tianjin. It is full of commuting urbanites, with narry a fertiliser bag in sight. Instead, all is self-confident, sophisticated bustle and unreservedly an urban experience; odd in a country in which most people are still farmers or from farming backgrounds.

The new Station remains a work in progress, only a few of the platforms are in use, the connection to the Beijing Subway has not yet open and some of the food concessions have not opened to the public. The incompleteness rather detracts from the full experience of the new communications hub. However, if the main Station was a monument to the aspirations of the New China in  the latter half of last century, the South Station is a very eloquent suggestion of where China wants to go in the first half of this one. Thank God to live in interesting times!

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Tags: Beijing Diaries, bricks, olympics, Tianjin