I
took the free shuttle bus. What
could go wrong? It’s
slick. It’s waiting there. It’s free. “It’s leaving now?
For the IFC? Well, OK
then.” It’s comfy. Requisite air-con up to maximum
frigid. First annoyance is
auditory. The music they’re playing,
is acutely disturbing because it is on a one and a half minute repeat, so that
even an Gila Monster could figure out that it was hearing the same thing over
and over and over.
What have we got?
A vaguely Latin groove, an impassioned woman who asserts something
vaguely hopeful, and is then mixed out, to some other incongruous mood that is
also fleeting. We rise to another
emphatic premature climax, hold our breath and then it is awkwardly interrupted
and, it starts again, and then again, and then again, and then.
I’ve heard it seven times now. Doing the math you can see as well that we are not making good
time. This should be a quick
trip. But the second affront to my
sensibility is the dog that didn’t bark, the turn we didn’t make up over the
hill, towards Queen Mary’s Hospital and the view down into the broad graveyard
bowl. The proper way to go to
Central from the Cyberport in Pok Fu Lam is to go up and over Pok Ful Lam
Road. This bus decided to go
through Kennedy Town. So my tight
little schedule wherein I’d arrive just in time has been laid to waste.
Grumpy now as we pull up to a stop again, behind a bus that
is stopping at what feels like every bend in this road along the coast. Riding in to Kennedy town I sigh,
because I shouldn’t be here but can’t help but marveling at the quayside and
how the tremendous harbor water surges up like a bathtub that has just
accommodated a very large person, sloshing about. This is a view I will try to remember, this surge of the ever
shrinking waterway, boiling nearly up and into our way, sailing through Kennedy Town, against my will.
Why it’s almost made the detour worth it.
I should check the time again and send another mea culpa text. 文过饰非[1], “yeah, so I foolishly took this free shuttle
bus . . .”
And just like that, I’m back in China, back into Shenzhen. Yellow trucks with green gauze over the
top speed along the highway next to me.
So many of the vehicles have the duel plates required to go back and
forth to Hong Kong. We thought of
moving to Shenzhen at one time. I
can’t imagine what I was thinking.
Upon recollection I know what I was thinking. I could get more space here than Hong Kong. That’s all. Tough city. Tough to invent yourself in a city
whose raison d’etre is to invent its civic consistency from nothing. Everyone aggressively inventing themselves with very little time to care about you.
And to my local friends whom I didn't ping on this trip, please don't extend the metaphor quite that far. Up through the night working this time. We'll nail it on the next one.
And to my local friends whom I didn't ping on this trip, please don't extend the metaphor quite that far. Up through the night working this time. We'll nail it on the next one.
I’ve said it
before but the road side horticulture in Shenzhen isn’t bad at all. OK, Its the semi-tropics and stuff just grows, but certainly it blows
away the thirsty poplar trees of Beijing and with time will sturdily compete
with the plane trees in Shanghai.
In Shenzhen they have found that the trees with the drooping roots,
(rubber trees they are, I ascertained with a quick search) stretching off the
branches like some suede feathering off a circa 1968 Roger Daltry costume, are attractive
in Hong Kong and so they are on the horticulture agenda now here, as well. Thoughts turn to Singapore and their
nifty tropical highway roadsides you consider, as you speed out to catch a morning flight
from Changi Airport. Now, mind you, there is no dearth of ugliness out there
beyond the yellow and white flowers that I can’t name, and the roots drooping. Graffiti and an unused piece of netting
hanging from the wall, by an underpass of non space covered with litter. The roadside simulacrum only protects
so much.
Heading out from the boarder crossing at Shenzhen Bay to the
district of Longgang. Up on the
hill is a fake tree made to look beautiful, with fake conifer needles that’s
better than a metal base station, but, with its dumb, predictable symmetry,
only so much so. The air is corpulent.
I can’t tell if it is pollution between the clouds or if we are
expecting rain as we zip in and out of tunnels, like this one, which the sign
informs me is the “Xin Wu Tunnel” on our way up and through. No good writing here.
We have a tap-the-pedal-to-the-beat-in-my-head type of driver who is
certain to make you seasick if you pay attention to how bad he is.
A day of meetings done now. My last physical obligation is completed and it is
6:00PM. I hopped in the cab and
the young guy literally yelled at me, “where
you going?!” “Charmed, I’m sure.”
I could have gotten angry but instead I laughed at him loudly and said.
“I’m heading to CoCo Park, Relax.” And he sped off content that it was a
descent fare. “So what’s the
matter you yelling at people, is it the end of the day? When do you get off work? Sounds like you need a break.” I got him to smile. “Yeah, I’ll be off work soon.” A woman
with an infant in a stroller up ahead is looking in askance to see if the
cabbie will let her and the defenseless baby pass first? Absolutely no.
China in development almost always has a roughness. But Shenzhen in development is usually rougher. No one is from here. You get the sense that no one is
especially concerned with what their grandmother might think of their poor form. She isn't here. None of the "elders" are here. Everyone's from out of town and it seems to legitimize or necessitate an 'up-yours-Charley' posture just to navigate and not be cut off.
And what is the story on “Uncle Funkenstein?” The name is so ridiculous and
derivative I nearly blew it off entirely, paired there as a shared meme with
our man of 100 instruments from yesterday, the one Lloyd Miller. http://www.last.fm/music/Uncle+Funkenstein/+wiki
Expecting something akin to, say, Blowfly, with references
to space travel in underpants and oversized sunglasses, I was pleasantly
surprised by the deep, completely infectious, confident soul-bop grooves. UF is bad. I
should have this on a real stereo.
Grooved, deeply funky jazz that sounds like you got to Prospect Park in
1989, just in time for the Phoenician jam besides the Botanical Garden. I’ve got the eponymous title song on
and it feels rather proud and sunny-savanna. The album itself is titled “Together Again,” recorded in Indiana in 1983. The only thing I could find on line
about the band was on the German Wiki, suggesting it was comprised of Alonzo
Pookie Johnson on sax, Melvin Ryne on organ, and Larry Ridley on bass. Apparently Johnson was also a US Postal Worker. Thought about that for a moment this morning. Glad he had time put down the mail bag and record this session. He was probably glad to keep a roof over his head, as well. Nothing's easy.
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