Chicken Soup for the Tianjin Expat Soul: A Matter of Perspective

In the housing complex in which our family lives, we see a lot of interesting local characters.There is Mr. Wu, who comes around to help in the garden, Ban Ayi (a.k.a. the hair-cutting Ayi), there is our Ayi, indispensable when it comes to cooking Chinese food or motoring through the mountains of ironing we produce.And there is our trashman.Every day or so, he comes around in a white flatbed truck piled high with stinking, rotting refuse, and takes away our contribution to the fetid mess that is his bread and butter.

We all know that there are garbage men everywhere, thousands in the US and Canada alone.And there are likely many in North America who may enjoy their jobs; the pay is really not bad and the lifestyle that it makes possible is no hardship.However, our trashman does not live in the suburbs as we know them in North America.There are no strip malls to be sure, and ‘conveniences’ for him do not involve a Blockbuster Video around the corner or a 24-hour convenience store in the neighbourhood.Conveniences to him are much more basic; they involve things like running water and electricity and represent a quantum leap in luxury from what he grew up with.He is probably amazed that he can now eat jiaozi whenever he wants, not only at Chun Jie as was the case during his childhood.

But I digress.What Mr. Wu, our Ayi, and especially the trashman share is one simple thing that eludes many an expat making exponentially more money than they do: they are happy and they are thankful.

Mr. Wu makes approximately 3RMB an hour for his work. Yan Ayi earns substantially more, but still a pittance in Western terms.Ban Ayi sits outside year-round cutting hair at 3RMB a pop; remember that come February.I don’t know what the trashman makes but it is likely not much more than Mr. Wu.Yet every time he comes to collect the trash, the children rush out to greet him because he has a happiness that is infectious. He is, I daresay, jolly.Mr. Wu has a similar effect upon them, as does our Ayi.

However, Mr. Wu works with clean dirt and plants.Ban Ayi works in what could be condsidered a skilled profession.Yan Ayi spends quality time with cleaning solutions and dirty dishes.But the trashman wakes up each morning knowing that he

will actively pursue the collection of what other people designate as unfit to stay in their homes.

Trash.Filth.Coffee grounds, congealed oatmeal, eggshells and rotting fruit.Dirty diapers.All very aromatic, especially in the oppressive summer heat.

How many can say that they would ever be able to do the same?And would you do it for a salary that allows for what a UN inspector would consider an unhygienic and fairly miserable existence?Even the most belligerent local taxi driver, convinced beyond a shadow of a doubt of his unendurable poverty and hardship, would, I am sure, balk at the notion of manual labour at that level.

But this guy hugs our children.Plays with them.Gives us gardening advice.The kids shriek, “the trashman’s here!” every time his truck comes into view as they go tearing out the front door.They go out to play with Mr. Wu and ‘help’ him in the garden.They wave a loving goodbye to Yan Ayi every afternoon.And we are greatly blessed for it.

Our children are growing up seeing unfailing cheerfulness and satisfaction where most would project only defeated resignation and bitterness were they in the same position.They are being taught by example that happiness is not attched to a bigger house or a fancy car, that satisfaction is attainable at the lower rungs of the ladder, and that the all-consuming quest for ‘just a little more’ is a falsehood of the highest order.

We are truly innovative in our own societies back home.Our youth are somehow able to generate well-fed, middle-class angst from the relatively luxurious lifestyles we lead.Such a capability is positively embarrassing in the light of what we see in those people spoken of above.And hopefully the aforementioned taxi driver would likely come to the same realization were he stepping over the dead and dying in the streets of Calcutta, Freetown, or Port-au-Prince for a month or two.The XiaLi to which he is chained 14 hours a day would never have felt so opulent.

P.S. With regards to last month’s article, I do realise that George Orwell and not Orson Welles wrote “1984.”I was reading H.G. Wells’ “War of the Worlds” at the time and got, well, a little confused, though such an error is positively unforgivable.Sorry.