When I decided to leave Beijing more than three months ago, I thought I would miss it, somehow. Afterall, a place should grow on you after you've lived there for a better part of two years, right?
But yet ... but yet. I don't. I mostly don't.
Perhaps because I left in a haze of fear and mistrust. Perhaps it was anger and misery caused by recent events.
As one can imagine, life in China for the Foreigner is at once liberating and confining. Liberating, because your dollar now has a purchasing power five times more. Time to live it up. Confining, because of ... let's just use the blanket term 'security'.
Getting a visa is the easy part, since one can pretty much be 'purchased'. Many Foreigners get by by forking out for three-monthly visas.
The next part involves getting a temporary residence permit within 3 days of moving into your apartment (sorry, having a valid visa doesn't mean you have permission to live there). You'll need this document for a variety of purposes, such as opening a local bank account, getting a job, buying your new visa, random police checks and so forth.
This task can be easy or difficult depending on the level of cooperation you receive from your landlord or housing agent. Combined with a tax-evading landlord, this regulation is the pits, since it requires the Foreigner to show up at the nearest police station with identification, valid visa and the landlord's identification. Now, which idiotic and dishonest landlord would want to be registered as a rent collector? (The clever and dishonest ones will just find a way around it without inconveniencing the money tree.)
To clear the obstacle, you can offer to pay higher rent, pay the tax your landlord doesn't want to pay, look for another apartment, or do without the permit. I went with the last option in my second year in China. It worked fine since I already had a bank account, a job, a valid visa and I blended in with the locals.
It worked fine, at least until the Olympics security frenzy kicked in. Residents were required to register with the neighbourhood council, especially those who were renting apartments. People came knocking every couple of days, leaving notices when the door went unanswered. Since I didn't have a permit for living in that apartment, I began to live in fear and misery, creeping in and out of the house like a burglar, and refraining from making any noises inside the house lest I was discovered. I tried to deflect the pressure by demanding, through the housing agent, that my landlord registers his name since he didn't cooperate before, but of course that just fell on deaf and dishonest ears.
Two weeks later, I moved out of the apartment. It still had a month's lease left on it. Half the furniture and appliances I'd hoped to sell or leave to the less fortunate were left to the mercy of the owners of deaf and dishonest ears. I hated the Olympics.
At about the same time, something was festering at work.
I'd turned in my resignation recently without informing any of the colleagues. But of course word got around without any help from me.
Among the six on the team, I got to know one of them well enough to call a friend. As part of a team that operates round the clock, we were thrown together for the night shift. Over two months, I discovered he is in his 30s and married with a son. He lives with his wife in the city while his young son remains in his hometown, in the care of his parents.
Over the Lunar New Year week, we were again thrown together for the holiday shift. I asked him if he missed his son since he is unable to return home for the festivities. He responded that he could see his son often by using a web camera.
He had a taste for traditional ethnic songs, and didn't like the fluffy sounds of the modern day pop royals, nor crashing rocker riffs. He exhibited rigid dislike for groups of Foreigners, particularly South Koreans and Taiwanese. I assumed both had something to do with age and nationalistic tendencies.
As it turned out, it had nothing to do with age.
Two weeks into my month-long notice, we had a conversation about my travel plans.
- You're going to Xinjiang by yourself? I remember we discussed going there together.
+ Yes, well. You could ask the boss to let you go on leave so you can come along.
- Oh, I can't go on leave. I need those for my wedding at the end of the year.
+ (Thinks it's a joke, therefore laughs.) Your wedding? Aren't you married?
- I'll explain it to you when we meet for dinner.
+ (Whiffs rat manure) Sooo ... you're not married?
Revelations (had girlfriend, not married, no kids, in his 20s) were followed by accusations (You lied?!) were followed by denials (I didn't mean it, it was just a joke!) were followed by rants (A joke that lasted an entire year?! You didn't mean to make up stories about your fictional family, on separate occasions?!) were followed by further denials (I didn't lie! I didn't lie!). I wanted a reason for the "joke" but he had none, or wouldn't say. He couldn't seem to understand why I am upset.
Of course, did I really care how old he is or his marital status? It felt like a betrayal, nonetheless. I shed tears, lost sleep, ranted to anyone who would listen, but no one could explain why the joke was funny. I wondered if he was sharing his little joke with other colleagues over lunch.
If I felt sad to be leaving, I didn't after this episode. I felt embarrassed and stupid to have blindly believed and even considered the person to be a friend, so it was a relief to leave. Perhaps if I hadn't left, I'd still be the butt of that little joke. Horrors.
Ah, the Chinese. What a delightful people!
