New Zealand on film . . .

another recent article was on the New Zealand Film Festival in China . . .

A still from Eternity

I've once again fallen into doing a lot of New Zealand-related stories, just because I hear what's going on and suggest we cover them.

One of many things I am very happy about at China Daily is that they welcome my stories, and pay extra for them. A win-win situation . . . 

Bicycling Beijing - the column . . .

While I have been rather remiss with this blog of late, I have been writing for China Daily and this column was printed today - complete with my own cartoon . . .

(Apologies to Steve - the editors changed "friend in Korea" to "Korean friend" - it's hard to get good help)

The salon . . .

I have a very awkward relationship with this blog - it's partly a journal, where I store notes for if I ever get around to expanding on them; it's partly, or was, a portfolio of what I can write, but there are other sites for that now; it's partly a place where I can write letters to friends without needing postage; it's partly a response to the few people who hate me (there would probably be more if I got out more); occasionally it's a big fuck you to things I don't approve of . . .

It isn't, and has never been, a means to invite readers, or fans, or whatever we call them these days . . .
I write. I edit. I observe. I help journalists in the country I am in.

I freely admit I could be completely wrong about every observation I make. That is why I don't get paid to editorialize, and the blog is just current feelings.

So, if you're here, welcome to my salon - please be polite in your criticism

I've had responses to things I have written that I found hard to believe, and all I wanted to do was stand in front of those writers and ask if they would say that to someone they knew by name, or even saw in person

but, because you're not being "THAT" person, welcome

PGR's Classy Response to the Death of Fred Phelps Sr . . .

Anyone who hasn't had their head in a hole is aware that Fred Phelps, founder of the controversial Westboro Church, was announced dead this week. Not surprisingly, a lot has been said about that on social media, much of it in a spirit of celebration. I've been expecting to hear, "Ding-Dong! The Witch is Dead" repurposed in Phelp's Sr's dishonor.

What has surprised me are the strongly hateful reactions from those in my social networks whom I know to be fervently Christian, to the point of proselytizing constantly. Their problem with Phelps and his church was the hatred it displayed, yet they seem to see no contradiction in displaying that same hatred toward Phelps. Motes and beams in eyes spring to my mind, as does casting the first stone, but Christianity has no exclusive claim on hypocrisy.

In 2011, on a motorcycle road trip through the U.S., I met with Fred Phelps Jr and a brother, Jon Phelps, at the home of one of them in Topeka, KS. I had tried to attend their service the previous day but, being a little nervous, tried to enter the church at the last moment and found it locked. I then e-mailed, explained I was a writer from New Zealand traveling through the country and had some questions I'd like to ask, and was invited to come back.

The main question I wanted an answer to was what is at the heart of every person and every story - Why? Particularly, why they did the things they do, why they increased the grief of those already suffering, why they thought their God equalled hate?

They had their own agenda, about which they were very forthcoming. They believed any publicity they get benefits what they see as the tasks God has assigned them, even if it was a modern-day gypsy writer from the other side of the world. It was only when I played the interview back many weeks later that I realized what a battle of wits it had been. I was determined to remain calm and ask rational questions, they wanted to argue scripture (which they all know far, far better than I ever plan to) and antagonize me. They had done their homework and knew of New Zealand's liberal stance on homosexuality and tried to link that, through scripture, to a series of earthquakes and aftershocks the Canterbury/Christchurch region had begun experiencing the previous year.

Through it all, what I found scariest was how normal an American family they seemed, if one did not know their religious views.

I was also, while in Kansas, honored to meet and interview some Patriot Guard Riders who told me why THEY do what they do. As I continued to travel through the U.S., I discussed both entities with many people and tried to put together my thoughts on the place of each in the world.

Many months, miles and a couple of countries later, I sat down to reprise some of my U.S. experiences, from the sublime to the ridiculous, and felt that the purpose of the WBC (and I believe everyone and everything has some purpose) was that, "Their presence at such public events [as military funerals] has so incensed middle America that it has made communities take note of the sacrifices made for them by the less than 1 percent that is the military."

I had the honor to ride in a funeral cortege with PGR members while in Chicago, and was moved to tears by not only the leather-clad bikers I expected to see standing strong and silent and escorting the deceased and his family to the cemetery, but by the streets we rode along lined with people standing silently, holding flags or hand-on-heart as the hearse and escort passed.

Perhaps some of that, I thought, is a result of the WBC and what they stood for.

I have regularly received notices from the Patriot Guard and wake most mornings to notifications of too many military deaths, ones I can put names to, tho thankfully not faces. This morning, there was a PGR National Message which, as I would expect of the PGR, was the classiest response I have seen to Phelps Sr's passing. It needs no further words from me:

Patriot Guard,
Let’s first remember our Nation’s true Heroes. Those brave men and women of our military and first responders who gave their life so that we may enjoy the freedom to express our differences.

While it is hard to find anything good to say about his views or actions, we do give our condolences to his family during what must be a painful time for them. We take no joy in the sickness and death of any man. We do not celebrate the death of Fred Phelps. Patriot Guard Riders hope that Mr. Phelps somehow found the peace that seemed to elude him in life.

It is true that the PGR grew out of a response to protests at funerals. That's a fair statement.

However, that was 2005 and the PGR quickly learned that there was something powerful in a gathering of Americans who would simply stand and hold flags and let a family know that they were not alone. That powerful thing became our mission.

We are neither a protest nor a counter protest group. We honor fallen Heroes and those who have honorably served this free America. The presence or absence of a protest does not alter that mission.

If it not for this man and his family we might not have heeded the call to regularly honor the sacrifices of our nation’s true heroes and their families. Nor would we have come to know the brother/sisterhood that has become the Patriot Guard Riders.

Respectfully,
Robbie

Robbie Smart
President
Patriot Guard Riders

An International Palate . . .

The first person I met on my first invite to a function at the New Zealand Embassy, Beijing, was the ambassador's wife, Connie Aldao Worker. I saw her again some weeks later when I went to interview a visiting New Zealand chef and found her helping out in the kitchen.

On finding out she is a professional chef and restaurateur, I asked to interview her and spent a pleasant morning in the temporary residence chatting over coffee, before sharing her homemade pavlova and a New Zealand Sauvignon Blanc.

The resulting interview was printed here

Kiwi on Wheels . . .

 

Evening on Beijing's streets . . .

Wheeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeee . . .

The Kiwi has wheels again. Not, as she prefers, two wheels attached to a sizeable engine and offering a freedom that only ends when the roads (and tracks) do, but wheels nonetheless. And she's wondering why she didn't do this earlier.

A friend left country for family reasons some months back, leaving behind a bunch of stuff including his bike for when he returned. I asked what he was doing with the bike and he said I was welcome to
ride it, and the key was in another friend's apartment, with all his other gear. This week, it was found.

Yesterday evening, I took the bike for a spin, only intending to go to the gym, which I'd been missing for the past week as Beijing's hazardous smog kicked my asthmatic Kiwi butt. The 10-15 minute walk is reduced to a 3-5 minute ride but, unfortunately, the gym was crowded with lots of people waiting for machines and most cutting in line as any came empty. So, rather than standing there getting mad at people, and having some chores to do, I decided to hit the road instead.

Cycling in Beijing, particularly in peak hour traffic in the half-light of early evening may not give quite the same adrenaline buzz as speeding down a highway on a high-powered motorcycle but it
has its own sense of defying death. I'm thankful for the time I've spent riding roads and sidewalks in South Korea, avoiding boulders and bullock-drawn carts in Thailand and simply watching cyclists from the front of a double-decker bus here in Beijing. All have given me an insight on how to behave on Beijing's roads and, one hopes, stay in one piece.

Here in the inner city, many of the main roads have sectioned off side lanes, intended, it seems, for bikes, the ubiquitous three-wheel trailer motorcycles that are the workhorses of China, plus the real
horses drawing carts from which farmers sell their produce direct to customers, and also buses and cars that are either about to turn, stop or just decide to take that lane. It's very common for bikes and motorcycles to take these lanes in the opposite direction and most of the cyclists seem oblivious to anyone behind them. The route I take on the double-decker bus includes a section on one of these lanes and I have often watched as a cyclist nonchalantly pedals along with the bus honking and crawling behind.

By the way - nobody seems to see a need to put lights on bicycles simply because you might ride them at night.

My ride took me along a few main roads and across many intersections, watching for turning cars (I'm not sure of the law but cars turn on red lights here, so it's a good thing to watch for them), heedless pedestrians, soundless electric bikes coming up behind me (mirrors on bikes are also an unknown here, it seems) and other road users appearing out of the gloaming headed toward me, like salmon swimming upstream.

I loved it! Cycling in Beijing makes me feel part of China in a way I hadn't before and I'm eager to explore this city on two wheels, traveling like a local.

Watch this space . . .

Life goes on . . .

It's been a long time between posts . . .

I've been in semi-hibernation as I learn my place in China and learn more about the place. There's so much to see and write about here but I'm wary of making quick assumptions that rely more on preconceptions and misinterpretations than any real analysis or personal experience. It's such a vast, vast country, with 55 recognized ethnic minority groups in addition to the Han majority so stereotypes are of as little use here as most places.

A friend from the United States keeps reminding me there's no such thing as a typical American - the same can be said of Chinese.

As always, when I travel, I watch what the government does but judge the country on how the people act - to each other, to me, to family, strangers and visitors. On that scale, I find China, or its people anyway, to be warm, welcoming, friendly and basically happy. I recall the dire warnings I was given by many people before coming here and I see the attitudes of folks in my social networks but, listen up guys, people are people, and these people often put a smile on my face.

It's the little things that matter, especially when you don't have the language skills to communicate verbally:

The janitor who at first seemed kinda glum but now has a huge smile and a "Ni hao" for me whenever we see each other . . .

The young woman at the staff canteen who has noticed I never eat there but stop by each day to get the piece of fruit and yogurt that follows each meal, except I take two pieces of fruit instead. She now has two of the best pieces of whatever is on offer that day waiting for me . . .

The people at the local market I go to, a few hundred stallholders who now recognize me and always say hello, even those who have worked out I shop at another vendor for what they also sell . . .

The guards who man the entrances to my workplace, and often open the gate for me to save me the bother of swiping my ID card (don't tell anyone about that one) . . .

The grandparents who look after the children while the children's parents work, and who are always happy to have a stranger admire their little emperors and empresses and laugh when the kids find a round-eyes frightening . . .

The produce boys at the small supermarket near me, who pick out the best of whatever it is I am buying and practice their sparse English on me as I do the same with my meager Chinese . . .

The total strangers on the buses who direct me to an empty seat, because obviously I'm incapable of finding one myself (that's actually pretty sweet, you know) . . .

The feeling that, despite everything against them, I'm in a place where people believe that hard work results in earned rewards . . .

It's far from paradise, of course, but most of this crazy, messed-up, wonderful world is far from paradise. I like that the locals here try to make the best of what they have.

And yes, there are plenty of negatives, such as the pea soup impersonating air outside my window as I type. But, you know, it's life, and I'm content living it here for now . . .