China: The Dust

If you put a sepia filter on the identical apartment towers of Chongqing, it looks like the apocalyptic opening of Wall-E. With the exception of improved vegetation, the scene is dangerously similar. The walls are stained with mold and stretch 30 stories high. Its not just the buildings either. The cranes are like monsters, straight out of slum mashing movies. They look like beasts of destruction, but they're actually the most physically powerful tools of construction. Put ten of them in about an acre's proximity, and it looks like Team Rocket is taking over. Literally, to unite all people within the nation, to extend its reach to the stars above. Dust settles on waste, and this filthy mixture buries itself into the cracks on the streets. When it rains, the mud rises and sticks to the soles of 28 million pairs of feet.

We lived in one of the oldest cultural districts, Shapingba. Its infamous prestitigious education is undeniable, but the place is exhausted. Groups of soot-covered men squat in their 45 square foot garages to sort through electrical wiring and metal trash. Yoke carriers slink around street corners, waiting for someone with too much baggage to collapse. Sweepers quietly scrape cigarette buts and seed shells into their dustbins. If any of these people are lucky, they'll make one RMB that day. 16 cents, enough for a bowl of suan la fen, sour, spicy noodles.

Here, there isn't time to care about other people. Survival isn't accepted; its seized. Every pork bun stand has its own specialties. Every farmer has a different bargain for dragon fruit, yangmei (yamamomo), litchi, persimmon. And that was my excuse to list delicious exotic fruits. Anyway, you can't wait in line to pick up your breakfast soymilk - you have to push your way to the front. Sales people step on your heels the second you enter their portion of the department store, and the only way to get them off is to be rude. Ignore their mega horn voices and the way they address you as "Mei nv," beautiful girl. Beggars are ignored and taken for fools. Many of them kneel, in the traditional position of humility, and simply wait. I have seen only one beggar who received consistent attention. He sat unclothed on stone steps, emaciated, so that his bones poked through his skin. Residents weave in between the cars and buses, knowing that if they wait, the traffic will never stop for them.

The stereotype for "Asians" is that they're bad drivers. On the contrary, they are the best drivers I've ever seen. Three cars squeeze into single, one-way lanes. Left signals are often U-turns. Five lanes can merge into one. There's no mercy or courtesy. For 14 RMB, or 2.30 USD, a taxi took us across the Yangtze River to Chiqikou, going 60 on a 40 k/h rode, slowing on the bend only because it has a history of throwing cars into the water. To park, the driver sped into incoming traffic to swerve around slow cars and switched back two lanes for a right turn. If it was legal, I would've tipped him double for the ride.

 What gets me every time I come back to China is the immensity of its population, and the monstrosity of the city's growth. In every single one of those towers, there's life in every single one of those windows. There's an emotion behind every honk that blares through the night and a story behind each wailing siren. I lived by a school, and heard hundreds of voices. Every student in that morning crowd had a family - a mother, a father, or both. Every parent had testimonies of the Maoist regime, poverty, growth, and death. Similar complexity is true for every country, but when you're crushed between strangers and see life in the darkest, dirtiest places, the reminder rings ever so loud.