[the cars] were always passing each other in a mad rush to get wherever they were going. Most of them were cabs, and virtually every cabby in Fuling had rewired his horn so it was triggered by a contact point at the tip of the gearshift. They did this for convenience; because of the hills, drivers shifted gears frequently, and with their hand on the stick it was possible to touch the contact point ever so slightly and the horn would sound. They honked at other cars, and they honked at pedestrians,. They honked whenever they passed somebody, or whenever they were being passed themselves. They honked when nobody was passing but somebody might be considering it, or when the road was empty and there was nobody to pass but the thought of passing or being passed had just passed through the driver's mind. Just like that, an unthinking reflex: the driver honked. ... the other drivers and pedestrians were so familiar with the sound that they essentially didn't hear it. Nobody reacted to horns anymore; they served no purpose.
Something that i learned early on in Bangkok is that "the simple truth was that you could do nothing about either the noise or the pollution, which meant that they could either become very important and very annoying, or they could become not important at all." To enjoy your time in asia, you must decide on the latter. I've decided to make honking fun. I try to predict when someone will honk. I try to make cars honk on my bicycle. The chinese ride their bikes a lot. They also ride them very very slowly (most don't have gears). So, in comparison, i'm lance armstrong and when i use the car lanes to pass the slow cyclists, any car behind me will honk if i enter their lane. It doesn't matter that i'm actually going twice as fast as the cars (which also go slow because there are too many of them). The predictability and meaninglessness of the honk is hilarious.
Something i've noticed in the states is that the chinese exhibit greater collectiveness and generosity within a family than do americans. Growing up in San Jose, we lived next to a Chinese family where the grandparents lived with their children.
They were remarkably generous with each other, and often this selflessness extended to good friends ... collective thought was particularly good for the elderly, who were much better cared for than in America ... they almost always lived with their children ... doing what they could to help out around the family farm, business, or home. There was no question that their lives had more of a sense of purpose and routine than I had seen among elderly [in America].
But such collectivism is limited to small groups, to families and close friends ... these tight social circles also acted as boundaries: they were exclusive as well as inclusive. The most common [example] was the hassle at ticket lines, which weren't lines so much as piles, great pushing mobs in which every person fought forward with no concern for anybody else. Collectively the mobs had one single idea - that tickets must be purchased - but nothing else held them together, and so each individual made every effort to fulfill his personal goal as quickly as possible.
This behavior permeates every experience in China. There is no sense of personal space, because if you're not in the person's circle, you essentially don't exist. There is constant contact (i.e. collisions) with other people who aren't looking where they're going. When there is an accident or an argument on the street, bystanders will crowd around and watch without helping or interfering. Someone could be bleeding to death on the street from a car accident, surrounded by people watching them wail in pain. I've seen it happen.
China is indeed a crazy place for an american.
No comments:
Post a Comment