Take this, America!

Get this, you pathetic gutless Americans who tremble in your PJs and fake croaky voices when you want to take a sick day to get over that last beer you shouldn't have had on a Wednesday night. Stand up and fight for your wellbeing like your northern neighbors!

The Canadians have five weeks of vacation and eighteen sick days a year. Now they are fouling up the entire Lake Ontario for their unjust treatment. I saw and smelled their courage myself! And let me tell you, the city workers whipped the city like it's nothing but a sack of garbage.

Don't get me wrong. Canadians are the nicest bunch I've ever encountered. My flight from Toronto was delayed for six hours. I would have got no more than a roll of eyes from a United Airlines agent. Canadians felt so bad for me that the customs officers let me go off wherever I wanted, an Air Canada agent gave me a tour of the downtown, and another one sneaked me into the airline's gold members' club. I'm now sitting in a reclining couch surrounded by expensive business suits and sipping a glass of wine.

Just don't mess with their benefits!

A whole chunk of Lake Ontario shore has been turned into a dumping ground. Toronto's civic workers have been on strike since June 22. According to Bloomberg, "The strike closed pools, city-run child-care centers and many other municipal facilities in Canada’s biggest city. Garbage pickup for 500,000 homes and as many as 20,000 small businesses has been scrapped. Applications for city permits and licenses is suspended and Toronto’s island ferries are halted."

Here's the crux of the dispute. The city currently allows its civic workers to bank their unused sick days and cash them when they retire. The cash-strapped municipal government wants to scrap that perk, and the unions said "Hell no!"

"The city wants more than a pound of flesh," said Mark Ferguson, head of Toronto Local 416 of the Canadian Union of Public Employees. "And we’re not prepared to give it to the city.”

So the union fenced up with blue tarp an area the size of a football ground. Toronto's residents are driving their garbage and disposing it into that designated area themselves. Cars are lining up obediently at the entrance. A guy wearing a baseball cap and an orange hi-vi vest with the union logo is direting them into the dumping ground. Two other guys in similar costumes sit nearby in beach chairs sipping coffee.

Lake Ontario tumbles gently beyond the piles of garbage bags. Joggers and bikers dart by the blue tarp.

"We are lucky that it's been cool and hazy lately," the Air Canada agent who's driving me said. "Imagine the hot steamy July we usually have! Wow!"

Let's just say, even with such lenient weather, the smell of thirty-three days' worth of garbage from a city of over a million is still mighty potent.

The agent, my kind volunteer tour guide honks and waves to the picketing workers. "You've got to support the union!"

Show Me Some Good News

I thought I would never say this, but I miss watching a Chinese newscast. Boy, I can use a little deception these days.

A Chinese newscast opens with one of our nation's leaders shaking hands with another nation's leader. Our leader is smiling that stately, unflappable, showing-the-right-amount-of-teeth-and enthusiasm smile. The voiceover from the newscaster says "President so and so received the leader of country A today. They conducted friendly discussions. Both sides pledged to strengthen cooperation and communications between the two nations. Leader A reiterated the stance that there's only one China and that Taiwan is an inseparable part of the Chinese territory."

Then the newscast goes on to say that our nation's GDP over the last quarter has grown at the right pace following to the vision or our leaders, that a new technology is on track to cure a recalcitrant disease under the great leadership of the Party, and that the new rural policy is bringing unprecedented prosperity to farmers.

If there's any disaster, it would be "Premier so and so visits disaster victims and sends relief materials to their homes. Speedy recovery and reconstruction are underway under the great leadership of our Party and National leaders."

"Now, let's turn to international news." says the newscaster, who's also beaming a stately, showing-the-right-amount-of-teeth-and enthusiasm smile. The international news shows that the self-righteous big bully called the United States is losing it. (My mom has asked me in recent months if I'm really living in crime-ridden streets and if I were riding a horse to work because nobody in America could afford driving anymore. Now she simply turns to other channels when the news hits the "Imperial-America-is-sinking" segment, because the thought of me losing my job and begging in a violence-torn street drives her crazy.)

Sometimes, the newscast ends with a cute little Japanese robot who can clean your shoes while singing, or the release of a new Hollywood blockbuster. (It kinds of trips me here that they promote the hallmark of the capitalist culture from the crumbling imperial America.)

So, are you getting what I'm trying to say? I always emerge from the Chinese newscast with a sense that our great nation is on track to becoming greater in the steady leadership our greatest leaders. Bad things happen, but as long as you have faith in our Party, the leaders' guiding hands will steer us back to peace and prosperity.

Now my days here in the US starts with reading a Washington Post front page story that says the stock market is diving and unemployment rate is soaring. Another headline says the government is assembling a big package to jolt the economy back to life (Thank God!), but then the whole page and a half article tells me nobody knows for sure if this thing is going to work. (Are you telling me that you guys don't have leaders that can fix everything?!) Then an NPR host is interviewing a supposedly well-known economist who predicts that the recession could go on for five years. (Don't all the economists get government memo about how to talk up people's confidence and encourage everyone to buy stuff?)

Great! Now my day has been ruined before it's even started.

Maybe the newspapers wouldn't be dying in droves, had they learned how to do news like the Chinese.

Stumbling to the Unknown

A couple of weeks ago, I was introduced to an older gentleman who's a retired but supposedly legendary journalist. He asked where I was from, and I said China. "Oh," he said, "When I was working for xxx News, we shared a floor with a Korean news service. Also, I hired this girl from Macau. She was just wonderful..."

"That's great!" I smiled and nodded. What I really wanted to say, however, was, "What the %^&*! So I'm supposed to feel some kinship between us, because you happen to know a couple of my yellow-skinned cousins?"

Try that to a white guy: "My college roommate was German. He loved beer."

On a second thought, the legendary journalist's statements weren't really that outrageous. It's just human nature, I figure, to ransack your knowledge for clues and references when you encounter something novel. You search your memory for things that bear some resemblance to the novelty in front. You mark down those things, like familiar landmarks on a map, and then chart a path towards the unknown. Some people just like to think aloud.

When I took Charlie—a six foot three white guy—home with me to a small town in China, he was ogled everywhere he went. People pointed him out, invited their friends to join the sightseeing, and yelled, "look, there's a foreigner!" My family embraced this foreigner, although they were still doing the charting and mapping for a path to understand the novelty. We went to a dinosaur fossil museum in the nearby city. Charlie felt rather at home among those giant dinosaur skeletons, because for the first time in days he wasn't the only big phenomenon. Suddenly, my parents pulled Charlie aside and excitedly told him: "Look, your countrymen over there." They were pointing to a white couple. When the couple walked by us, we listened. They were speaking German.

Charlie's one eighth German, so I guess my parents were not that off.

Almost There

Bill, a reporter for the radio branch of my company joined me a couple of days later in Chengdu. He speaks little Chinese, so we did our reporting together and I doubled up as his interpreter.

For the entire length of my trip, I tried to avoid contact with the authority, for fear that they would ask me for my credential. Bill had no fear. He wanted voices from “the officialdom,” and I had to be there to translate. As an American citizen, he in general enjoys more protection than I do. Luckily, for the most part we were not asked to present any paperwork.

One day we tried to access Beichuan, where nearly eight thousand had died in the earthquake and thousands more were missing. After hours driving in hairpin mountain roads littered with boulders shaken down the slopes, we were, however, barred from entering. Police told us the town was sealed for fear of disease spreading. Right by the traffic check point, there was a military camp. Soldiers wearing medical masks were spraying disinfectant on vehicles and people coming back from Beichuan.

I walked out of our car and started filming the soldiers at a distance. A few minutes without being noticed, I was emboldened and walked up closer to the camp. Then one soldier, who looked senior to the rest, strode up to me and asked: “Hey, who do you work for?” His tone was casual and friendly.

“Oh, Shanghai TV.” I blurted out.

“Really?” He sounded excited, “I’m from Shanghai, too. Why don’t you stay with us!”

Several other soldiers hustled up and surrounded me. A younger one said: “Yes. Stay with us here. We have female soldiers. You can stay with them.”

“Maybe, maybe tomorrow.” I stuttered, “I have a deadline tonight and I need to get back to my colleagues.”

“What’s your phone number? Give us your phone number.” They were not ready to let me go.

“Eh, I, I don’t know. I mean, I just got this local number yesterday and I can’t remember it. How about you give me mine and I will call you.” I was thinking hard for an exit strategy.

“Who’s that?” One soldier suddenly sounded tense and alert and pointed behind me. I turned around and saw Bill.

“Oh, he? I don’t really know. He’s a hitchhiker we just picked up on the way here.”
I then whispered to Bill, “I told them I don’t know you.”

Keeping a poker face, Bill walked back towards the car.

The soldiers were quiet for a second, as if trying to figure out whether to believe me.

“I, I really need to get back.” I broke the silence, and started peddling back. “My deadline is approaching. It’s really nice to see you all. I’ll visit again tomorrow.” I backed out of the circle, waving them goodbye.

When I got into the car and drove off, they were still watching.

Aftershock

As soon as I got out of the mountain range, my cell phone was flooded with text messages. My cousin, my another cousin, my parents, and some friends all had the same thing to tell me: a magnitude 6~7 aftershock was in the forecast in the next 24 hours. They all wanted me to be careful.

The night had fallen when I got back to my hotel in Chengdu. I was staying at the International Students’ Center at the Sichuan Normal University. The building was abuzz with activities. Almost every door was open. People were shuttling backpacks, suitcases, luggage, food and water downstairs. Every inch of the lobby was soon covered with bed sheets and comforters. A dozen or so were making such “floor beds” on the basketball court outside.

Seeing the hustling crowd, I felt the urgency to prepare for something major as well. I packed my valuables—computer, video camera, cables, and some money—and staked a corner in the lobby.

Slowly, people settled into their impromptu beds around me. Some were doing their bedtime reading. Some were lying on their backs staring at the ceiling, wearing bicycle helmets. Some were exchanging the latest information about the expected aftershock and complaining about the incessant anxiety they’ve been feeling. Soon all the chatters died down. I sat on the floor, hunched over my computer, which perched on top of my backpack. I had to edit the video I gathered during the day. It took me a couple of hours. Then, I had to go back to my room, which was on the third floor, to connect to the internet and transfer the video back.

I tiptoed around slumbering bodies, and went back upstairs. The upload speed was excruciatingly slow. I had no choice but to sit and wait. I kept the door open, and removed everything from the path to the door. At about 2 am, I was sitting in front of the computer screen, and nodding off. Suddenly, a tremor shot through my spine from my feet. Another one followed immediately. I jumped to my feet, and made a mad dash out of the door and downstairs. Two young men were running besides me, excitedly checking with each other: “Did you feel that? Did you feel that?”

We stopped in the lobby. Not a single one on the floor was stirring. I stood in the dark for a minute. Everything was back to absolute stillness.

I walked back into my room. The video transfer was complete. I passed out in the bed.

Into the Mountain

It seemed luck was compensating me after a sleepless night stranded in Shanghai. The cab driver who picked me up at the Chengdu Shuangliu Airport told me he had been driving into earthquake stricken towns a lot and that he knew ways to by pass the government's traffic control.

We set off immediately after I dropped off my luggage.

The cabbie's name is Lai Si, and I call him uncle Lai. He told me he had been working as a volunteer, sending rescue supplies to disaster zones and shuttling victims out in the fast few days.

We drove into the mountains. The road became narrower and steeper, some portions partially blocked by boulders or giant piles of mud. The force of the quake had stripped some of the cement surface, pushed some parts up and pressed others down. A four-inch crack split the road in the middle. Uncle Lai deftly navigated on this terrain and tried to stable the vehicle to accommodate my attempt to videotape the scene.

We picked up a villager on our way. A few more miles up in the mountain, he said we had arrived in Hongbai village, or what's left of if—piles of smashed bricks, broken wood columns, pieces of clothes, dangling concrete frames. Abandoned chickens and pigs were roaming in the debris looking for food. For miles and miles, not a single building was standing. The village used to sit in a valley. The villager pointed across the valley and showed us a mountainside covered by a yellow blanket of mud and rocks. "More than a dozen families," the villager said, "were buried by the landslide over there."

Some survivors moved to government supplied tents, but there were not enough for everyone. On the roadside stood a makeshift tent haphazardly cobbled together with wood columns and tarp. A woman stooped outside of the tent, washing some odd pieces of frying pans and bowls. I walked over and said: "Hi, sorry for interrupting." She looked up, eyes swollen, and stared at me blankly.

"Could you, could you tell me what happened?" I stuttered.

"My house was here." She murmured, raised one arm slightly and gestured towards the tent. The gesture seemed to be too much for her. Her arm collapsed into her body, her head dropped, lower than before, and started to scrub a pan again and again. It was too much for me, too. I turned my video camera away and walked back to my car.

Many soldiers and volunteers had arrived. They were busy distributing food and water and spray the debris with disinfectant. No one could tell how many died in the village.

Some told me more than a thousand had perished. One villager said the death toll was much higher than that. All said that the local government tried to understate the casualties to higher ups initially. They believed it delayed rescue and relief for them as attention was turned to other hard-hit counties and villages.

Uncle Lai called me back to the car and told me that we'd better head back before it turned dark. Deeper in the mountains, there are still towns that haven't been heard since the earthquake.

On our way back, a medical team stopped us and sprayed our car and ourselves with disinfectant.

Stranded

It's 10:07 pm now, and I'm sitting in a hotel room, still staring at Shanghai Pudong International Airport, which looks like a giant cocoon lit from within.

First Air China told us that the flight was delayed, arrival time unknown. Then it directed everybody on that flight to Shanghai Airlines, who agreed to take us in on its 7:30 pm flight to Chengdu. We had only thirty minutes to check-in, pass the security and board the plane. Immediately, there were people sprinting frantically all over the place. By the time my turn came, I had only twenty-two minutes. The agent took my passport, typed on the keyboard, and looked up at me blankly: "You are not in our system." "What?!!" I felt my fingers turning cold. "We don't have your record. Go back to check with Air China."

I left my luggage behind and raced to an Air China's counter.

"Yes, you are in our system. Here's your ticket number. Go back to Shanghai Airlines."

I raced back to Shanghai Airlines.

"No, we still don't have your record."

Finally, I brought an Air China agent over to a Shanghai Airlines counter. Ten minutes was left. The two spent five minutes conferencing, and they figured it out.

The Air China agent told me because I booked my flight in the US through the United Airlines, which has a "Star Alliance" agreement with Air China, I can only travel with Air China, not anyone else. The United Airlines could have cut a deal with Shanghai Airlines, but the United had closed their operation two hours ago.

All other Air China 4502 passengers successfully boarded the Shanghai Airlines flight to Chengdu, but me.

Since there's no need to hurry now, I started asking Air China agents what's happening to the delayed flight. Here's what's going on.

The Chengdu Shuangliu Airport—the only one in the city—is being used primarily for military flights for earthquake rescue efforts. All passenger flights have to wait in line for intervals between military flights, which are ten minutes openings every several hours. Right then, there was no telling when the Air China flight would be able to get an opening to fly back to Shanghai, so technically, the flight wasn't canceled, but "delayed indefinitely." In addition, two if Air China flights during the day were already taken away to transfer medical and other emergency supplies.

And because all those situations were above the control of Air China, the company would not pay for my hotel room tonight!

I started calling the headquarter and Chengdu contacts, sputtering mad. Air China's duty manager walked up to me and said: "We decided to put you on a Sichuan Airlines flight and we will work out a deal with United Airlines tomorrow. You should be able to leave at 9:30 pm." I was ecstatic. The manger took me to another terminal and handed me over to Sichuan Airlines's manager. "We are delayed indefinitely, too." She said, looking amused, "We are in the same shoes as you guys are and our flight is still stranded in Chengdu." My hope was dashed again.

So here I am, in an Airport hotel room, hoping to catch the earliest flight to Chengdu tomorrow.