11.03.07
Posted in Barbershop, Culture Clash, Down in Chinatown, Personal Anecdotes at 5:56 am by Benjamin Ross
After spending the majority of the past two months in my hometown of Kansas City, I am now in Chicago beginning the next phase of my re-entry into American life. One of the reasons I chose Chicago was because of its ethnic diversity. As are most larger American cities, Chicago is full of ethnic enclaves scattered around this city. One of which is the Chicago Chinatown, home of the much of Chicago’s Chinese population as well as numerous restaurants, groceries, boutiques, and small businesses.
After my experience working in a Fuzhou barbershop last May, I thought it would be only fitting for my first experience in Chicago Chinatown to be a haircut. There are actually several barbershops in the Chinatown, but I chose one called “Urban Roots,” because it most closely resembled a “middle class” Chinese barbershop, like the one where I had worked in Fuzhou.
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| “Urban Roots,” one of Chinatown Chicago’s finer haircutting establishments |
With its bright colors on the wall and the mellow sounds Chinese pop music, the interior of Urban Roots looked and felt nearly identical to a Chinese barbershop (Chinese in the sense of actually being in China). The entire staff was Chinese, as were all of the other customers, and by the subtle look of surprise from the boy behind the counter, I am guessing they do not get too much non-Chinese clientele. Walking through the door, there was one blaring difference. Rather than being greeted by a chorus of “Huan Ying Guang Lin!” from the entire staff, a young boy behind the counter casually asked me, in accented English, “How can I help you?”
After telling the boy I wanted a haircut, I was led to the back of the salon by a woman in her mid-thirties. She sat me in a padded chair and leaned my head back into an attached sink, and began washing my pre-cut hairwash, just as they do in China. Conveniently located on the wall, at a perfectly aligned angle from where my head was tilted back, was an LCD screen playing Chinese karaoke videos. As I sat there, I felt for a moment as if I had been teleported back to Fuzhou.
The hair wash woman didn’t speak much English, so we chatted in Mandarin, and she told me she was from Guangzhou and had lived in Chicago for around 7 years. I told her how I had lived in Fuzhou for 3 years, and we exchanged stories and feelings about our years living in each others’ respective countries.
Throughout our exchange, one thing stood out as a blatant difference from China. That was that a woman in her mid-thirties was washing my hair. In China, working in a barbershop is a position considered to be low on the totem pole of social status. Furthermore, the job of a hair washer (or little brother/sister) is even lower than that of a barber. Most little brothers and sisters in Chinese barbershops are fresh out of high school, (or sometimes middle school) and rarely, if ever, older than their early twenties. Additionally, hair washing and cutting in China is a field still dominated by men, as many Chinese women stay at home to fulfill domestic responsibilities, especially those past child bearing years. Seeing a woman in her mid-thirties washing hair in China would probably be even less likely than seeing a 6 foot gringo from Chicago doing the same job. It would simply involve too much loss of face.
In China, face is a factor which can often determine which jobs are acceptable and which are not. Working as a businessman in a large company, a teacher in a university, or a government official comes with it a high degree of face. Work as a commissary employee, construction worker, or hair washer does not. This is why virtually none of the thousands of barbershop employees in Fuzhou are actually from Fuzhou. Rather, they come from small townships and rural areas in Fujian and surrounding provinces. A Fuzhou city native might consider working in a barbershop in say, Shanghai, but doing such work in their own hometown would cause too much loss of face. It would not even be an option.
When Chinese go abroad however, all of these rules are thrown out the window. Once in America, working in a barbershop, a restaurant, or a laundry service does not bare the embarrassment it would cause if such jobs were worked in China.
A close Chinese friend of mine, who comes from a wealthy family in Fuzhou, explained it to me like this, “If I went to Hong Kong, or England, or the United States, I could work a part time job such as one in a barbershop. But I could never do such work in Fuzhou. It would bring too much embarrassment to my family.”
One component of this is financial. Wages in Western countries are many times higher than those in Mainland China, and blue collar work in the West can lead to a life of comfort and luxury in China. Would an upper-middle class American with a college degree feel comfortable working as a cashier at McDonald’s? Would it be a job that he would want his friends to know he was working? Not likely. Now, imagine if McDonald’s restaurants in Canada were paying $250/hour, but Canada’s borders were closed, and only 5,000 Americans per year could emigrate to Canada to work. Suddenly the job, and the status which comes along with it, becomes more appealing.
After my hair wash, I was lead over to the barber chair to meet my new barber, a Chinese man, also in his mid-thirties. I greeted him in Mandarin, to which he replied, in English, “I don’t understand Mandarin, only Cantonese and English. I’m from Hong Kong.” Like the situation with the woman who had washed my hair, you would never see a Hong Kong native working in a Chinese barbershop in mainland China. Hong Kongers in mainland China find themselves propelled to the top of the social ladder, and certainly would not be cutting hair in the mainland. (I can’t comment on how this would play out in Hong Kong itself, since I haven’t spent enough time there). However, in the US, this job is perfectly acceptable by Chinese social norms.
After my haircut was complete, the woman from Guangzhou gave my head another wash, thus completing a process which was nearly identical to that which I had received so many times in China. The only major difference of course was the cost…a walloping 26 dollars, not including the 4 dollar tip I gave the barber. In Fuzhou, the cost of a haircut at my barbershop was 30 RMB (aprox $4), and as is custom in China, there is no tip.
My experience at Urban Roots not only gave me a sentimental throw-back to China, but it served to reaffirm a good lesson for all those coming from China to the United States. Here in Chicago I can have an authentic dim sum lunch, watch CCTV, and get a Chinese haircut complete with 2 washes and karaoke videos, but life in the US is not the same as it is in China, and this applies for both Chinese and laowai (which by the way, we are also referred to as by Chinese in the US). Long-standing beliefs and traditions, such as the concept of face, can last for millennia when maintained within their native countries. However, when exported to foreign lands, they are often no match for the social and economic forces of life abroad. And who knows?…Maybe someday doctors and lawyers from Chicago will emigrate to Fuzhou to cut hair.
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09.26.07
Posted in Personal Anecdotes at 7:15 am by Benjamin Ross
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Chinggis Beer, the Budweiser of Mongolia
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On one of my last days in China I wore a shirt that I bought in Mongolia with the image of Chinggis Khaan, Mongolia’s all around patriarch/superstar. As leader of the Mongolian nomads, Chinggis was able to invade and take over most of China, parts of Russia, Eastern Europe, and the Middle East, while establishing the largest empire in world history. The Ulaanbaatar Airport is named after him. Mongolia’s most popular beer is named after him, and pictures of him can be seen all over Mongolia. Although he died over 600 years ago, Chinggis is by far and away Mongolia’s most prominent historical figure. During my trip to Mongolia, I had to buy a Chinggis Khaan T-shirt.
My Chinggis shirt often becomes a conversation topic when I wear it in China. When my Chinese friends ask where I bought the shirt, and I tell them Mongolia, they are quick to point out that Mongolia was historically part of China, and that Mongolians are one of the 56 official nationalities living in China, and therefore Chinggis Khan was a Chinese.
During several periods in history, Mongolia was controlled by China, and today half of it (Inner Mongolia) still is. However, from 1271 to 1368, China was invaded and controlled by Chinggis and his Mongolian tribes in what is commonly referred to in China as the “Yuan Dynasty.”
Determining who is and who is not Chinese is not an exact science. What makes somebody a Chinese? If we say that a Chinese is a Han Chinese, then the Manchurians who controlled China during the Qing Dynasty would not be Chinese either, and neither would be Zheng He, the famous explorer (and Hui Muslim), who allegedly discovered America before Christopher Columbus.
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Chinggis Khaan International Airport, Ulaanbaatar
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Yet, if we insist that “Chinese” includes all of the peoples who are represented by the 56 official Chinese nationalities, then suddenly our definition of “Chinese” swells to include not only Chinggis Khaan, but Stalin, Kim Jong Ill, the Dalai Lama, and Borat, all of whose nationalities are part of the 56. So where is the line between a Chinese and a…for lack of better terminology…laowai? Calling Chinggis Khaan Chinese seems like a historical stretch to me, but by some twist of logic, I can see how the distinction would be made. However, using the same logic, you could argue that Mao Zedong was Mongolian. Somehow I can’t imagine this would sit too well with the Chinese.
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09.19.07
Posted in Personal Anecdotes, Travel Log (Asia) at 3:27 am by Benjamin Ross
Several months ago (this was when I was still in Fuzhou) I was struck with a predicament we all face from time to time. I got locked out of my apartment. Normally this isn’t such a big deal, but I had just moved into a new apartment and had yet to give a spare key to a trusted friend. Several thoughts ran through my mind at the time. First I called my roommate, but he was spending the night in a hotel with his girlfriend who was visiting him from France. I didn’t seem like the time to ask him to come home and bail me out. Then the thought crossed my mind to sleep with my former co-workers in the barbershop dormitory. However, sleeping without air conditioning in Fuzhou in the summer is something no sane person would ever purposely chose when there was a viable alternative. The other option was to find a hotel. However, most hotels in Fuzhou start around 200 RMB (approx $25 US) per night, quite a waste when it is already 1 pm.
As I strolled through the dark alleys of downtown Fuzhou, suddenly a new thought entered my mind. There was a place I could go with my own room, air conditioning, TV, clean bathrooms and showers, as well as a complimentary massage, all for only 50 RMB (approx $6 US)…that is one of Fuzhou’s ubiquitous massage/sauna centers. Before you get the wrong idea, I am not referring the “barbershops” with the pink lights. I am talking about legitimate massage centers where for 50 kuai (sometimes less) you get a one hour professional massage as well as access to clean bathrooms, hot showers, and a room similar to most 3 star hotels. Now the real kicker to the deal is that 9 times out of 10 you can actually sleep in the massage room for the night.
I first learned about this from my good friend Ron Sims (the famous podcaster) when we were traveling in Hunan and Jiangxi for May Day in 2006. We visited 6 different cities in 7 days, and did not spend a single night in a hotel. 3 of our nights were spent sleeping on trains, while the other 4 were spent sleeping in various massage centers, paying around 30 or 40 RMB per night. As Ron put it, “It’s essentially the same price as staying in a hotel, possibly cheaper, plus you get a free massage every night.”
I now had a plan. I set off to find the closest massage center. About a 15 minute walk away from my apartment I found a fancy hotel with massage service. The regular massage was 80 RMB, but they had a foot massage for 50 RMB. I had never tried a foot massage before, but figured I’d give it a whirl. The attendant led me upstairs to a room and had me lie down on a bed with freshly changed sheets. With two strokes of a remote control the A/C was cranking and the TV was blaring Chinese talk shows. I lay down and relaxed for fifteen minutes before a girl who couldn’t have been older than 18 came into the room with a big bucket full of hot liquid. She placed my feet in the bucket which she told me contained Chinese medicine. While my feet soaked, she massaged my legs and arms. After the preliminary massage, she meticulously labored away at my feet for the next half an hour, massaging, and cleaning every possible nook and cranny of my feet.
When it was all said and done my feet were cleaner than they had been on the day I was born. My body was massaged. The bed was comfortable. The A/C was on full blast. It was 2 AM. I turned on the TV and passed out. The next morning I awoke around 9 am. I put on my sandals, which had been provided by the massage center, and headed over to the locker room where I took a 25 minute shower in steaming hot water with incredible pressure. At 9:30 I checked out at the front desk, gave them my 50 RMB and headed back to my apartment hoping one of my roommates had returned.
The overnight massage stay is one of the most valuable tricks I have learned during my tenure in China, and I’m surprised more people don’t take advantage of it. Afterall, why would I pay 200 RMB for a regular hotel room when I can pay 50 RMB with a similar room plus a complimentary massage or foot detail? Where else can you get this kind of treatment and accommodations for less then a the cost of a pepperoni pizza? Gotta love China.
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09.12.07
Posted in Personal Anecdotes, Sino-US, Relations and Comparisons at 7:40 am by Benjamin Ross
Today is September 11, a day in which we recall the terrorist attacks which shook our nation back in 2001. For many people, 9/11 is a time to reflect…to look at the freedoms we have in America, and be thankful for what we have. When I realized that this would be my first September 11 in the United States since 2003, I was reminded of a conversation I had with an old woman in my apartment complex several months ago when I was still living in Fuzhou.
The woman was a retired teacher of philosophy who had published several of her own books. She was originally from Shandong province, but had moved in with her son in Fuzhou after retirement (as is Chinese custom). A remarkably well-educated and worldly woman who had grown up in an age when most women were illiterate, she would frequently engage me in conversations about philosophy and politics whenever we would pass each other. One day she came to me with a question.
“Do Americans love war?”
I had been asked these kinds of questions, but never so directly, and I had a stock answer.
“I don’t think anybody loves war. Wars are usually caused by large-scale governments, not by the citizens themselves.”
“I agree,” she said, interrupting me before I could finish. “But in America, you are democratic, right? You can vote for your own leaders. Here in China, we have no say in the government, but in America your leaders are chosen by the citizens. Your government likes to start wars in other countries, so I have always thought that your people must love war as well, since this is what your government does, and the government is chosen by the people.”
I am not a political scientist, nor am I sure that the transitive property necessarily applies to matters of international relations. But what I do know is that this view is not unique to my old Chinese philosopher friend.
In the wake of 911, the American public was bombarded with rhetoric from our leaders about fighting terrorism and “keeping the world safe for democracy.” However, what we did not receive was much verbage indicating any form of self-introspection. Why would any country, organization, or even a terrorist group want to attack the United States?
There is never an excuse for killing innocent civilians, and I in no way condone the events of 9/11, but that does not mean there are no reasons behind it. Yet we are often skirted away from any form of self-introspection by explanations such as “The terrorists hate freedom!”
For those of you who have spent time abroad, I do not need to tell you what the Iraq War has done to America’s reputation on an international scale. For those who have not been abroad, I suggest you call a friend from Britain, or France, or China, or Afghanistan, and ask them.
Would it not be out of line to suggest that America’s actions and reputation on the international sphere had some influence on the events of September 11, 2001? Furthermore, does our growing reputation as a nation which causes wars abroad have any impact on the future security of the United States?
When the topic of 9/11 came up, the old woman told me she had sympathy for the American people, but that she understood why terrorists would be compelled to carry out such actions.
“I don’t think it is right to attack civilians,” she said “But I also do not think it is right to mess around with another country’s internal affairs.”
As for her view that Americans “love war,” I was unable to convince her otherwise.
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08.30.07
Posted in Japan, Personal Anecdotes, Travel Log (Asia) at 2:41 am by Benjamin Ross
continued from Midwestern in the Sun Kingdom (Part 1)
It has now been almost a week since my last post and I apologize for the drop off in content, especially since I promised to blog from Japan. I am now back in Kansas City, and spending my first day or two attempting to live a somewhat normal lifestyle. Upon my arrival, I was promptly whisked to B.B.’s Lawnside BBQ, one of Kansas City’s finer BBQ establishments (with live blues taboot), to begin what would be an intensive 72 hour family reunion. Now that that’s over, I finally have some time to catch up with the Japan excursion.
I would be lying if I said that the recent lack of content was in no part due to my own negligence, but it is also due to restrictions put on my Internet usage by a particular youth hostel operator in Tokyo. Here’s how things transpired.
My first day in Tokyo was likely the most efficient day of travel I have ever had in my life. My first order of business was to visit the Yakasuni Shrine. After living in China 3 years, and hearing all the anti-Japanese rhetoric in regards to the shrine, there was no way I could go to Japan and not see it. Fortunately, it was coincidentally located a half hour walk from my youth hostel, so at 9 am I headed out to make my visit. After the shrine, I visited the local Harajuku, a hangout for trendy teenagers, Shibuya, one of Tokyo’s central shopping districts, the Meiji Shrine, and Yoyogi Park, an urban park with street performers, a skate park, and even breakdancing classes. I spent most of my day on foot, walking around these areas, trying to take in as much as possible. At 6 in the evening I saw a baseball game at the Tokyo Dome.
By about the fifth inning of the baseball game I was completely exhausted. I left the game early, and hopped on the subway back to my youth hostel. I had been using the subways to get from location to location, but had probably walked at least 5 miles exploring the various areas. I was completely exhausted (going on only about 8 hours sleep for the previous 48 hours), my feet were blistered from the walking, and I was ready to get back to the youth hostel early, take a shower, and relax in front of the computer screen for a couple hours. As I rode the train away from the Tokyo Dome, I had been thinking how incredibly efficient the Tokyo subway system was, and how easy it had been to get to all the areas I had wanted to go to, without any previous knowledge of Tokyo mass transit.
Ironically, it was at this very time when I was to have my first incident with Japanese mass transit. Before I go any further, I should mention that this was the only problem I had with Tokyo mass transit, and overall it is an excellent system. So this likely was an isolated incident.
Shinjuku Station is the most trafficked subway station in Japan, and I’m willing to bet it is one of the most trafficked stations in the world. My youth hostel was located one stop away from Shinjuku so whenever I wanted to return, I would have to go to Shinjuku first. According to my map, all I had to do was take the train from the Tokyo Dome to Shinjuku station, find the Shinjuku line, and then ride it for one stop. The previous night I had done the half hour walk from the hostel to Shinjuku, but after a day of walking and sore feet, the last thing I wanted to do was walk for another half hour.
To make a long story short, I spent an hour and a half following signs around Shinjuku Station, trying not to pass out from fatigue, only to find out later (through the advice of some friendly locals) that the Shinjuku line is actually located just down the street from Shinjuku Station. By the time I found the subway, what had originally been a plan to get back to the hostel by 8 and in bed by 10 had suddenly turned into getting back to the hostel at 10 and getting in bed by midnight.
When I finally made it back to the hostel, I took a shower, put on fresh clothes, picked up my laptop from my locker, and went down to the lobby for some much needed rest and relaxation. The past 72 hours had consisted of packing, throwing a party, riding planes, and touring around Tokyo with a few hours of sleep peppered in. I had had a productive day seeing Tokyo, and now was tired, mentally and physically, blistered, and worn out. After conquering the Tokyo subway, there was nothing which was going to get between me and about 3 hours of Internet therapy…so I thought.
As I was setting up my computer in the lobby, one of the young girls working at the hostel approached me.
“Are you Benjamin Ross?” she asked.
“Yes, that’s me. What’s wrong?”
Before she had said anything more I realized exactly what the problem was. The previous night when I had checked into the hostel, they had asked me to pay ahead of time for my 3 night stay. I had already booked online with my credit card, and had paid a $10 deposit to reserve my bed. On my last day in China, I had been paid in cash for my work on the TV show. The money had been given to me in the afternoon and my flight was at 8 am the following morning, so I hadn’t had a chance to get the money changed in China. RMB is notoriously difficult to convert into foreign currency, but I had planned on finding a place in Tokyo which could convert it to yen, and then using that money to pay for my hostel, rather than charging up my credit card. I had told the hostel employee of my plan, and asked if it was ok for me to give them my credit card as collateral, and then pay them the following day after I had exchanged all of my RMB. I told them that on the off chance, I could not get RMB, they could just charge my card. The staff complied, and said this would be ok as long as they could hold on to my credit card.
Exchanging my RMB into yen proved even more difficult than I had originally anticipated, and by the time I finally located a bank which would do it, it was too late, as they closed at 3:30!
I told this to the girl, apologized for the inconvenience, and asked if they could continue to hold onto my credit card, and that I would go back to the bank the following day before 3:30, exchange my money, and pay them in full.
“Follow me,” the girl said, as she took me to the hostel’s front entrance where behind a counter sat an old man whom she conversed with in Japanese.
“This is the owner,” she said, “He knows of your situation. He wants to know why you said yesterday that you would have the money today, and now you don’t have it.”
I told him about how I had gone to several banks, none of which would accept RMB and how I had finally found a bank which would, but it had closed at 3:30. The girl translated for the owner who was not amused.
“The owner says you said yesterday you would have the money, but today you do not have it. Why did you say you would get the money, but now you don’t have it?” she asked.
“Just like I told you. I thought I could get it, but it turned out changing RMB in Tokyo is much more difficult than I thought. Now I know where to get money, so it should be no problem tomorrow. In the meantime you guys can still hold onto my credit card.” I told her.
Again she translated, and the owner replied to her. She translated back to me, “He says you need to go out and get money now. There is an ATM in Shinjuku. You can ride the subway.”
At my level of exhaustion, and after already spending 2 extra hours in Shinjuku Station, there was no way I was going to go back to the station, in the heat, find an ATM, find the subway line again, come back, shower again, and relax in front of my computer, all in time to wake up early the following morning for my last full day in Japan.
I turned to her. “Listen, I understand you guys want the money now, but I am completely exhausted, injured, sleep deprived, and I just took a shower. Would it be possibly for me to just pay you tomorrow? You guys can hold on to my credit card, so there is no need to worry about me leaving without paying.”
“Let me ask the owner.” she said. She spoke to him for a few minutes in Japanese, and then the owner turned to me and said “NO…You get money or no stay!”
As much as I did not want to charge the stay to my credit card, my desire to pay in cash was not nearly as strong as my desire not to make another trip to Shinjuku Station.
“Ok you know what…don’t worry about it.” I said to the girl. “Just charge my 3 nights to my credit card, and we’ll have this all taken care of.” She translated to the owner, who scowled again and replied back to her. She translated to me.
“The owner wants to know why last night you refused to pay on your credit card, and tonight you want to pay with a credit card.”
Again, I explained my situation, how I thought I could get cash, but I ended up not able to get it, and that I could either give him cash tomorrow since I now knew where the bank was, or I would be willing to just let them charge my card to get the ordeal over with. The girl knew exactly what I was talking about and seemed to understand my situation, but the owner refused to budge.
“He says we will not accept your credit card. You must pay in cash or find some place else to sleep.” At this point the conversation had already dug 15 minutes into my window of computer and sleep time and I was getting agitated.
“I booked this hostel with my credit card. Yesterday you would accept my credit card. But now you say you will not accept my credit card?” At this point my physical exhaustion was beginning to take its toll on my attitude and patience.
“Yes, that is what he says.” she replied.
“Do you take credit cards?” I asked, in a raised voice.
No answer. I asked again.
“Do you take credit cards?” I asked, louder.
“Sir, we will not take your credit card.” the girl replied.
By this time I was yelling, and the people in the lobby using the computers were taking notice.
“This hostel accepts credit cards. Why will you not accept my credit card?”
The girl spoke again with the owner and turned to me apologetically, “He says that you said yesterday you would get cash, and now you do not have cash. He says you are not sincere.”
I emptied my wallet, laid 2000 RMB (equivalent of enough yen for over a weeklong stay) and 2 credit cards on the table. “Listen, I am not trying to rip you off. I have money. You have my credit card. If I were to leave without paying, you could just run up the bill on that card. I am not leaving this hostel tonight.”
“Yes, I understand your situation completely, but he is the owner, and I have no say. He says you need cash tonight,” she said.
I felt a little guilty about getting angry, especially with the girl who was just acting as a messenger. However, I also was not pleased with the way I was being treated, since with all the facts present, it was blatantly obvious that there was no way I could have stiffed the hostel, even if that had been my intention.
“OK, tell the owner he has 2 options. He can either charge my credit card right now, or I can give him cash tomorrow when I go back to the bank. I am not trying to cheat you, and I am not leaving this hostel.”
After conversing again with the owner, she replied, “You must pay in cash.” After running over the same arguments for another 10 minutes, and attracting more attention from the other guests in the lobby, the girl finally stepped in with a solution.
“The owner says he wants you to pay him with your Chinese money.”
“That’s no problem at all,” I said, knowing that my original reason for not paying with credit was that I had wanted to get rid of all my cash first. “I would love to get rid of this RMB, however, make sure to tell him that transferring it into yen might be a hassle for him. I plan on doing it anyway tomorrow and can give him yen then, but if he wants to make things more difficult on himself…”
“He says he wants you to pay him in your Chinese currency.”
I told her that was fine with me, and the owner picked up the phone and made a call.
“He is finding out a fair price now.” the girl said.
Using a calculator he typed out 450 as the rate he would charge me. I had already calculated the rate for the evening in RMB and it had come to 370. I pointed this out to the girl and when she told the owner she replied that he would be charging an extra fee for the conversion.
“You know what, I really don’t care.” I said. “As long as I don’t have to leave this building tonight, it’s fine with me.”
The conflict was now over, and as it neared 11 o’clock, I could finally sit down with my computer and veg out for an hour or two before crashing out and waking up again 7 hours later.
Two computers were set up in the lobby along with 2 additional LAN hookups for people who had their own computers. I had needed to make use of several files and applications from my laptop, not to mention the difficulty of using Japanese keyboards so my plan had been to hook up my laptop. I had tried this the previous evening, but the employee who had been working had noticed that my laptop charger needed an adapter to fit into a Japanese socket. I had spent an hour of my day (and 975 yen, approx $8 USD) buying the adapter so that I could use my own computer at the hostel.
The electrical outlets were all located behind a counter where only employees were allowed to go, but which were available for guests to use, so I asked the girl if she could help me plug my computer in. Hearing my voice, the owner came followed her to see what new crazy demands I was requesting. Seeing that I wanted to use my computer, he interrupted us and began speaking in Japanese to the girl. She turned to me.
“The owner says that if you want to use the computer it will cost you 1000 yen per hour to use.”
The owner looked at me, “Japan electricity very expensive.”
“That is ridiculous. Last night I wanted to plug in the my computer, and your employee told me it would be no problem. I even went out today and bought a special adapter, just so I could use my computer here for 2 nights. Furthermore, you advertise this hostel as having free computer access, and there are 3 people sitting right there using it for free.
Once again, the girl looked at me apologetically, “I know, and I agree with you, but there is nothing I can do. He is the owner.”
“I already spent 1000 yen of my own money just to buy the adapter. Had I known there was a 1000 yen charge per hour, I never would have bought the adapter. I already paid for my room in the hostel, and now I would like to take advantage of the services which were advertised as being included in the hostel stay.”
Again, I got the same response from the owner translated from the girl, “You must pay, 1000 yen per hour. It is a fair price.”
“You know what, fine, I don’t care. I just want to relax and get on the computer. Tell him I will pay him 1000 yen, but only for unlimited usage tonight, not 1000 yen per hour.”
Again, another conference.
“You cannot use the electricity. He says he does not like your attitude. You were not sincere with him the first time. Japanese people attach great importance to sincerity and honesty, and you were not honest.” I had effectively been banned from the Internet by the youth hostel.
“I was not lying to him…” I yelled at her before catching myself in my anger. As angry as I was, it really was no fault of the girl, and I felt bad about her getting caught in the middle. I apologized to her, told her I knew the situation was not her fault, and asked what she suggested.
“I trust you. I know you weren’t trying to cheat us, but the owner is just like that, and I can’t do anything about it. Why don’t you go upstairs to the 9th floor. There is a wireless network you can use there, and he will never know. I apologize for this situation.”
I thanked her again, and apologized for any of my tirade which was directed at her, and went upstairs. While there was an electrical outlet, the wireless network was temporarily out of service. I finally gave up, succumbing to the fact I had been banned from the Internet in Japan and shifted my strategy to trying to salvage enough sleep out of the night as possible.
By the time I got to sleep it was nearly 1 AM. As I lay in bed I went over the exchange in my mind again and again. Part of me was angry. I had only 3 days in Japan and was trying to maximize those days as much as possible. The last thing I needed was to waste an evening on such a fiasco, especially on the false pretense that I was trying to cheat the youth hostel. On the other hand I was a little disappointed in myself for getting so angry about it, and I am quite sure this had some influence on how the owner had responded.
Although my short temper and the ensuing tiff was in no doubt partially influenced by my state of impatience and exhaustion, it struck me as interesting that I have never found myself in this type of situation in China. Something felt odd, strange, different. Then it finally hit me. Throughout our argument, no effort was made on the owner’s part to save face, either his or my own. He had directly told me he suspected that I was cheating him, without giving either himself or me a way out which could have potentially prevented an altercation. He had then fought back with me by insisting that I pay to use the electricity on account of my “insincerity,” and then he had told me how much his people honored sincerity (in effect implying that mine did not). Had this same situation occurred in China, they probably would have found some obscure rule beyond their control which prevented them from accepting credit cards on Tuesdays after 10 pm when it isn’t raining, or conveniently discovered that the credit card reader was broken. As angry as they might have been, they would not have said “you are a liar, and I am going to make your life difficult because of it,” even if that was exactly what they were thinking.
I am not trying to say either way of dealing with matters is more appropriate, nor am I asserting that the way this man acted is at all representative of typical Japanese behavior. But I do believe, it does to some extent represent how two different cultures might deal with conflict. My own personal tendency to favor a more direct approach, but I can see how preserving face and skirting around direct attention to issues could serve to prevent an embarrassing situation in particular contexts. I tend to believe that the actions of the youth hostel owner are more attributed to the fact of him being an asshole than to him being a Japanese, but even those who violate typical some social norms, are still very much influenced by the typical behaviors of the society in which they live. But in the end, I am just glad to be back in America, a land where my Internet usage has still yet to be precluded by any governments or angry youth hostel operators. More on Japan (and China) in the days to come.
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08.20.07
Posted in Personal Anecdotes, Random Goofiness at 9:29 am by Benjamin Ross
Last night I came back from a night at the bars with my roommate. As we walked up to our apartment, I swore I smelt something awful. Weird stenches are not that uncommon in a country with an overly dense population and somewhat lax sanitation standards.
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| I have seen some pretty foul happenings in 3 years in China, but none has hit home like this bomb dropped 10 feet from my doorstep last night. |
This morning when I left my apartment to go to record my TV show, my worst fears were confirmed. Some person had had a severe episode of la duzi just outside my door. The craziest part of it is that I live on the 4th floor, so whoever the culprit was had to climb up 4 flights of stairs before relieving themselves. With the way things work here in my apartment complex, the mess should get cleaned up some time this week. I’m still keeping my fingers crossed. This may be the sign that it’s truly time to leave China.
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06.22.07
Posted in Business 'n Economics, Chinese Bank Rants, Personal Anecdotes at 8:51 pm by Benjamin Ross
It happened again…I was having lunch at Fuzhou’s newest (and only) Indian restaurant today, and after receiving the bill, I handed the waitress a 100 RMB note from my wallet. A few minutes later, she meandered back to my table, handed my 100 back to me, and using the typical face saving protocol kindly asked, “Do you think you could give me a different bill?”
Knowing exactly what she was implying I felt the bill in my hands. “Wow, this is definitely a fake.” I told her. “I had no idea. Sorry about that.” She smiled back at me and I gave her a new bill.
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| One of these bills is real, and the other is counterfeit. Both came from ATMs. |
The bill in question had come from an ATM. This is not the first time I have received fake money from an ATM in China, nor the second, nor the third. It’s the fourth time in three plus years. At this rate, the Bank of China is probably distributing more fake money per year than the Parker Brothers. The general rule of thumb in China is that if you receive fake money, you must say so before you walk away from the transaction. Otherwise, it is your own responsibility (read: fault). Therefore, it is not uncommon to have your money turned down for various reasons, even if it is real. Last week a cab driver refused to accept a 100 from me because a chunk, literally smaller than one square centimeter, was torn of one corner. On several occasions I have been the victim, or the attempted victim of hit and run fake money scams, usually involving taxi drivers with fake 50’s.
I like to group counterfeit money incidents into two groups 1) my fault and 2) not my fault. The last time I received fake money was from a Chinese fast food （快餐）joint where I was having lunch. I did not realize that the 50 RMB note they gave me as change was fake until I tried to deposit it at the bank and it was confiscated. This instance was my own fault since I accepted the bill and walked away without saying anything. This is the way things are done in China, and I am more than willing to play by the rules so long as I can use the rules to my advantage when it is appropriate.
However, I find it hard to deem myself responsible when fake currency is dispensed from a state run bank. I must add that since my last episode with fake Chinese money, a Chinese friend has clued me in on how to report it if you catch fake money coming from an ATM. Apparently if you count your money while standing in front of the ATM, and receive a fake, you can call the police from your cell phone. If you do not move away from the ATM until the police come, the security camera images will then provide ample proof that your counterfeit currency came from that particular ATM. This seems like a feasible solution assuming there isn’t a crowd of people waiting behind you to use the same ATM. In a country of 1.3 billion people, this is rarely the case. Personally, I have no problem examining my currency whenever I am handed change from an individual, but I do not think I am out of line when saying that this step should not be necessary when using state run banks’ ATMs.
However, the most annoying part is not the fake money itself, but the fact that no Chinese people believe me that a Bank of China ATM could give me fake money, even though it has happened 4 times now (counting one from the Agriculture bank) in 3 plus years. “That is impossible.” “Counterfeit money doesn’t come from banks.” “Somebody must have given that to you.” “You are a foreigner, you just don’t know the difference.” These are the kinds of responses I get. The reason I am positive all of these fake notes come from ATMs is that 95% of all the 100’s I use come from ATMs. There is no bill larger than the 100. I usually go to the ATM, withdraw 800 RMB (since it is mentally like 100 U.S. dollars), and then break those 100’s down into change as I buy things. Whereas fake 50’s often come from change, this is impossible with a 100, since it is the largest denomination of Chinese currency. Every time I have received a fake 100, I have traced it back to an ATM.
I doubt that Chinese ATM’s are sophisticated enough to dispense disproportionate amounts of fake currency to foreigners, but you never know. Has anybody else been getting fake money from ATM’s lately or have even the ATM’s now been trained to specifically rip off the lao wai?
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04.30.07
Posted in Chinese Bank Rants, Personal Anecdotes at 8:03 pm by Benjamin Ross
Last week I had my first sweet, sweet taste of revenge against the merciless Chinese banking system. This week, they had their chance to fight back—the culprit was a fake 50 RMB note that was in my wallet.
I had been waiting in line at the bank to transfer my rent money to my landlord, when I noticed that one of the 50s in my wallet was clearly fake. I haven’t mention this much in my blog before, but here’s my policy on fake money—spend it. Counterfeit notes are everywhere in China, and anybody who has lived here for an extended period of time surely has experiences with them. The way I look at it, counterfeit money is just an inconvenience. Somebody passes me a fake. If I notice it is fake, I don’t accept it. If I fail to notice it, therefore it’s my own fault. Now I have to deal with the aggravation of passing it off to somebody else, who inevitably will have to deal with the aggravation of passing it on to another person. Nobody really loses out except Uncle Mao. (Actually, the majority of fake money I have received has come from official ATMs which I don’t consider my fault. I still follow the same policy). Bearing this in mind, I should add that I never pass fake money to people I know, small shop owners, or street vendors. Instead I try to use it at large grocery stores, McDonald’s, or in taxi cabs (where most of the fake money originates in the first place). I’m not sure if this is completely morally sound, but it helps me sleep better at night.
The other day, I had the stupid idea of using my fake 50 at the bank. Usually when you use fake money, the person you hand it to, simply says 换一张 (you got another one?), and hands back your bill sparing you the embarrassment of telling you it’s fake. At the bank this is not the case. The teller ran my stack of 14 bills through a little machine, and immediately picked up on the fake 50. Without fighting, I slid two twenties and a ten under the window. She took my cash, and told me that she would be confiscating the 50. “That’s my property.” I insisted, but there was nothing I could do from behind the bullet-proof glass. The teller marked the fake note with a small stamp, then called another clerk over who stamped the note at least 15 times on both sides. I was then required to fill out a “receipt for the seizure of counterfeit currency” form. The point of this form, presumably, is to take to the original passer of the fake money, and ask for a return. I was able to trace back the fake 50 to a 快餐 (cheap, buffet-style Chinese food) restaurant near my house. I pondered taking my frustrations to them, and asking for a replacement, but this would have run counter to the “it’s your own fault” theory which I subscribe to.
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| In the event that I ever need to prove to somebody that I tried to pass a counterfeit note at t.he bank, I now have an official “Receipt for the Seizure of Counterfeit Currency.” |
Regardless of my frustrations, the bank does have a policy of confiscating counterfeit money, and it was my own dumb-ass fault for trying my counterfeit note at the bank. Fittingly, I got what I deserved. This does not change my opinion that the Chinese banks’ policies are designed to ensure that in the event of any discrepancy, the customer, not the bank, invariably bites the bullet. When viewed independently, it makes perfect sense for the bank to confiscate counterfeit money. However, this policy comes off slightly hypocritical when you consider these same banks also dispense fake notes from their own ATMs. I think next time I am given a fake 100 from a Chinese ATM, I am going to confiscate the fake, demand the ATM give me a replacement, and ask it to fill out a form documenting the event. I’ll let you know how successful this goes.
So for those of you not keeping score at home, here’s the tally.
Chinese banks: 350 RMB
Ben: 116.2 RMB
After being beaten fair and square by the Chinese banks, all I can say is that I am even more sure I did the right by thing keeping the 116.2 RMB last week.
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04.23.07
Posted in Personal Anecdotes at 11:29 am by Benjamin Ross
After three years in China, one experience I had yet to have was seeing a movie in the theatre. Part of the reason was that movies are still out of the price range for most Chinese. Thus, going to see a movie doesn’t serve the same social functions (i.e. default date, something to do on a rainy day) as it does in the US. Instead, Chinese people watch most of their movies from pirated DVDs or download them from the Internet.
So for a little change of pace, Melody and I decided to have a night out at the movies. The theatre was located downtown and there were only 3 movies showing, a Chinese action flick, a Korean scary movie, and “The Devil Wears Pradda.” The latter two were both voiced over into Chinese. We opted for the Korean movie.
The movie, called “Han River Monster” turned out cheesy, but entertaining. It was like a Korean version of “Snakes on a Plane,” except instead of a snake there was a giant man-eating aquatic monster with a prehensile tail.
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| the row of “couple seats,” logically placed in the very back of the theatre |
The movie experience itself was remarkably similar to that in the United States, but with people smoking in the theatre. One aspect I did find particularly interesting was the availability of the “couple seat,” a special double-size seat designed for two people to sit together and snuggle. The price of the seat was 60 RMB, 10 RMB more than the price of two regular tickets. Of course, Mel and I had to try it out.
The couple seats are located in the back row of the theatre, and each seat has a barrier separating it from the adjacent seat, so that the people sitting next to you cannot see what you and your partner are doing. This presumably opens up a whole new world for junior high students looking to get away from the watchful eyes of Chinese parents. I tried several times to coax Melody into making out during the movie, but with no success. I was however able to get an arm around here during several of the scary scenes. I guess I’m just not as smooth as the guy sitting next to us who I think made it to second base.
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04.18.07
Posted in Chinese Bank Rants, Personal Anecdotes at 11:01 pm by Benjamin Ross
Yesterday I went to the bank to pick up some money my boss had sent me from the US to pay for my Chinese visa. The expected total was to be 1120.6 RMB. I filled out the transfer forms, and the teller informed me she would be giving me 1226.8 RMB. She wrote down the total on the form, counted out the cash, and handed it to me. I was a little surprised at this apparent oversight, but assumed it was a simple currency exchange miscalculation on my boss’s end. I took my cash, and was on my way.
Half an hour later I received a call from the bank teller. She told me the bank had made an error, and had given me too much money. They asked when I could come back and return the extra 116.2 RMB.
Normally this would have been a no-brainer. Yes, at times in my dark past I have been known to purchase pirated DVDs and steal wireless Internet, but I have always believed money should be returned in the case of an honest mistake. Then another thought occurred to me. I remembered sign which has perturbed me since the first time I was able to read it. It reads like this: 当面点钱，离开不负责 and can be found in big letters at every bank in China. It means “Count your money at the teller window. Once you leave the window we are not responsible.” In other words, “If the bank makes a mistake, you have to bite the bullet because it’s your own damn fault for not catching it in time.” And bite the bullet I have done, like the 3 separate occasions when Chinese banks have given me counterfeit 100 RMB notes. According to the policy, which is posted on the sign, there was nothing I could have done since I had not noticed it at the time the transaction took place.
If by chance this particular bank had given me less money than I should have received, and I hadn’t realized it at the time, there is no way in hell they would have given me my money back. It would have been my own fault for not counting the money on the spot…as is clearly indicated by the sign.
It was my thinking that it is only fair that the rule work both ways. 离开不负责 does not distinguish between the 2 parties involved. It simply reads “leave, no responsibility.” Once the customer walks away from the teller window, all responsibility is absolved. If the bank makes a mistake that favors me, and they do not catch it on the spot, I should be able to keep the money, as well as a clear conscience.
The next morning I sent a text message to the bank teller to inform her that I would not be returning the bank’s money.
“There is a sign in your bank which clearly says, count your money on the spot or else we are not responsible. This is your bank’s own regulation, and I plan to follow the regulation accordingly. I am not responsible for the money you miscounted.”
She replied, “Yes, I know we have that sign, but this is not about the sign, it is about honesty. If you do not return the money, there is nothing I can do, but I know I gave you an extra 100 RMB.”
I replied back, “This is not about honesty. This is about policy. If you had given me 100 RMB less than I should have received, and I had come back a half hour later, you would not have returned my money. That is the regulation. If there had been no sign and no regulation, I would gladly have returned your 100 RMB, but since you have this regulation, I am going to follow it.”
She replied, “If we had given you less money, it would have been caught on the security camera. You could have reported it or called the police.”
My urge was to respond with a big fat 狗屁 (bullshit, literally “dog fart”), but I decided to give it a rest. She sent one more last ditch effort to appeal to my conscience, but to no avail. My mind was set. I was not going to return the money.
I have been running through the episode for the past 24 hours, and can’t help but think that I did the right thing. I really could care less about the 116.2 RMB, but I certainly could not live with myself had I allowed the bank redemption for their mistake, knowing full-well that if the tables were turned, I would have been screwed with no remorse. Had this event happened in an American bank, or a Chinese bank without the warning sign, I would have returned the money without second thought. But when you’re living in an untrusting world where everybody is out to cover his own ass, sometimes you have to cover your own as well.
continued on 4/30/07 in Revenge of the Bank
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