Episode 7: Ride, Sally, Ride

Every morning, once the kids were on the school bus and Rob was on his shuttle bus to work, I hopped on Sally and explored the streets of Pudong. I was finally free to roam, mix and mingle in and around the city on my own terms.

And though it seemed chaotic — even frightening at first — after a while the rules of the road started to make sense to me. Like everything in China, it was like organized chaos.

I learned that the biggest vehicles on the road always had the right of way. Buses were the great white sharks of the road, followed by trucks, vans, SUVs, sedans, motor-scooters, bicycles and, finally, pedestrians. Though bicyclists were practically the plankton, I could still ride full speed ahead even if a person was in my way without braking. It amazed me, without fail, the person would move out of my way every time.

There were two rogue elements to this organized chaos: the taxi and the black Audi. Granted, these are probably universal descriptions of taxi drivers and the rich and famous in any country, however, in most developed nations, the rules of the road aren’t quite so…flexible.

First the taxis. At this point, I’d had enough experience with Shanghai taxis to know that I’d have to keep an eye out for them. I’m not exaggerating — at all — when I tell you that while riding in a taxi your life could end at any moment. Ran a red light — mei you wenti (no problem), going 60 km/h approaching children in a crosswalk without braking — mei you wenti, missed the exit because the stupid laowai (foreigner) doesn’t know where she’s going — mei you wenti, just turn around in the middle of oncoming traffic. Mei you wenti. Taxis were always unpredictable and out of control, impatient and impetuous. Whether on foot or on Sally, I always kept one eye on the road and one eye out for taxis.

As for the black Audis…well, I guess any luxury vehicle could be included in this category, but the black Audis stood out in my mind simply because I had never in my life seen so many black A6s.

Somebody in the Audi marketing department deserves a raise.

I imagined the ultimate Tai Tai sitting in the back seat: a shiny black bob with blunt cut bangs framing a flawless porcelain face, ankles crossed over patent leather Louboutin pumps, a smooth, black cashmere skirt showing just enough leg to make even a dead man’s imagination wander, a scarlet ibis red cowl neck silk blouse, a Burberry trench coat draped across her lap, iPhone crooked between ear and shoulder as she carried on an animated conversation whilst inspecting her flawlessly manicured nails. Suddenly, the car jerks to a halt. Tai Tai looks away from her nails for a split second, notices gridlock traffic, and barks at the driver, “Siji, Zou!” (Pronouced Suh-jee, Dzoh la — meaning, Driver, let’s go!) Without so much as a glance, her Driver pops up on the sidewalk and drives until he decides to force his way back onto the road. Yet another black Audi escapes a traffic jam at the behest of his Tai Tai.

I also learned there was a hierarchy among the two-wheeled varieties. The motor scooters were clearly in the caste above the bicycles. The scooter riders, especially the women, sat, perched with ramrod straight posture, their feet planted on the center console (rather than the pedals or pegs) up on tippy-toes, their lips pursed in a wry smile, and their noses tilted ever so slightly up in the air. These women were typically well-dressed in stylish jeans with the obligatory glittery accents. Their frilly, sheer tops — also with a hint of sparkle — flowed in the breeze with their long, black hair. And of course, 2 inch heels — at a minimum — were worn at all times, no matter what was on the agenda for the day.

The men on scooters, like the women, were usually well-dressed; many of them in three piece polyester suits. Instead of glittery accents on their trousers, though, they almost always had a large smudge of pollution soot clinging to their pant legs. Unlike the women, the men did not share the same smug countenance as their female counterparts. Instead, they simply looked like they were in the middle of their morning commute, pensively smoking their cigarettes, thinking about what was in store for them when they arrived at their destination.

The scooterers pissed me off sometimes. I could ride my bike faster than they scooted, but technically they still had the right of way. When a scooterer would slink in front of me and cause me to lose my left turn, they’d glance back at me with their smug snobbishness as I sat waiting at the red light desperate to flip them off.

The other two-wheeled marauders, the bicyclists, had a distinctly different look about them; often looking like they were shackled to their bikes — their faces forlorn and down-trodden, clothes worn and dirty, slip on canvass shoes made for comfort, with holes more times than not. Grown men riding pink women’s bicycles, with more rust than paint, was a common sight.

I imagined them at their final destination — maybe a construction site. They’re armed with power tools and paint brushes in zero-ventilation rooms — with no protective eyewear, hard hats or boots — drilling, painting, and hammering away for fourteen hours a day. The only break they’re afforded is at noon so they can shovel some rice and vegetables down their gullets and chug down a warm Tsingdao beer.

At least they could smoke while they worked.

As I sped past, my fellow cyclists would stare at me, incredulous that I would choose riding a bike in the oppressive heat and the pollution, over riding in an air conditioned, chauffeured car.

To me, the choice was simple. Sally became my vehicle to freedom. I was no longer stuck in a silent, sterile expat bubble. Now I could not only feel the pulse of Shanghai, but I was a part of it.

I caught myself on more than one occasion smiling from ear-to-ear as I whizzed past those prim and proper girls on motor scooters, my long red (and pink and orange and yellow) ponytail flapping in the breeze. I didn’t just ride my bike; I rode it with purpose. I pedaled hard and fast; my arms braced for impact at all times. I rang my little bell incessantly, much like the drivers of the black Audi, signaling to my cycling comrades that I was coming, and coming fast.

I never knew where I was going at any given time. I just hopped on and went. There was an apartment complex close to mine that was really tall with rainbow colored balconies around it. That was my landmark. If I could see the rainbow apartments, as I called them, I knew I could find my way home. Wrong turn after wrong turn led me down dark and shady streets where smiling people crowded around large tins of roasting huang shu (hwang shoe– sweet potatoes), unattended toddlers in split pants wandered the streets looking at me like I was an alien intruder, and heaps of garbage baked in the late September sun creating a scent that, combined with the raw sewage and industrial waste, was enough to bring tears to my eyes. Squatting men smoking, joking and gambling; the recycling guy with his rickshaw bike and his bell; men and women alike doing tai chi just any old place.

I didn’t care. In all of its ugliness I was able to find the most sublime beauty. I much preferred the sights, sounds and smells of the streets that that lurked, hidden from the public eye to the sparkling façade of the high rise towers with futuristic embellishments that made for pretty postcards.

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For more tales of an errant expat in China: The Price of Tea