IMPRESSIONS
All for `civilised neighbourhoods'
PALLAVI AIYAR
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A look at China's efforts to transform itself before the 2008 Olympic Games.
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In addition to the star-rating system for loos, the city authorities have also instituted a "morality-evaluation index" that ranks neighbourhoods according to the level of refinement they have achieved.
Photo: Pallavi Aiyar
The effect of the Olympics: No more Chinese chess or a simple stroll down the hutongs.
THE casual visitor to Beixin Qiao Tou Tiao hutong, where the spouse and I reside, might be forgiven for being a tad bit miffed when confronted with a bright red banner proudly proclaiming it to be a "civilised hutong". What manner of incivility do Beijing's hutongs usually display they may well wonder in bewilderment.
In fact, the declaration of the civilised nature of our alleyway is simply one ray of Olympic sunshine that has touched hutong life. The campaign to create "civilised neighbourhoods" is part of the Beijing government's strenuous efforts to transform the Middle Kingdom's capital from the rude to the refined, in time for the 2008 Olympic Games.
Key makeovers
Key to this makeover are the capital's public loos, always an important indicator of "development" but nowhere more so than in the hutongs where the bulk of residents lack private facilities. Hutong loos are more than mere toilets. They are public spaces where residents gather to share gossip and chattily exchange news of their latest bowel movement developments. What coffee shops are to Paris, WCs are to hutongs.
But, despite the fact that Beijing's hutongs sport a mindboggling number of public toilets, more than 8,000 according to one recent survey, their impressive quantity is not matched by quality. Hutong toilets usually consist of a series of unpartitioned pits in the floor with no flushes or running water. The mess piles up until the evening, when a pump truck makes the rounds of the alleyways, sucking up everything from the pits and carrying it away.
Aware that this will not do for the world-class image of China that the government wants to use the Games to project, $10 million a year are being spent till 2008, on transforming hutong bathrooms into "luxurious lavatories".
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The public facility opposite our siheyuan underwent its makeover only a few months ago. But to the disappointment of the local residents it only warranted a one-star construction, tucked away as it is in a cul-de-sac, few athletes of foreign visitors are likely to chance upon during the Games.
The municipal authorities have worked out a rating system for public loos ranging from one to four stars, depending on the facilities made available. The chief improvement in our one-star local toilet was the introduction of foot-operated flushes.
"Oh, it's much better than before," said Mr. Zhou, one of the 15-odd inhabitants of the plot to the right of our courtyard. Mild-mannered and balding he smiled, "At least the smell has gone." Stricken by thoughts of the "smell" the unrenovated, flushless loo would have sent wafting over into our courtyard on a hot summer's day, I sent up a silent thanks to the Olympic God.
"It used to stink of rotten eggs," Mr. Zhou continued with scatological glee, but then his expression darkened. "But ours is nothing much compared to some of the other new ones."
Clean and luxurious
Indeed, only a few minutes away at the head of neighbouring Ju'er (Chrysanthemum) hutong a full-on four-star gleaming luxurious lavatory was constructed as far back as 2002, soon after Beijing won the bid to host the Games. Infrared-automated flush toilets, electric hand driers and signs in English, Chinese and Braille decorate the building's spanking clean interiors.
The cleanliness has something to do with the fact that within the toilet are housed a married couple who function as full-time attendants. They live in a little room, complete with stove, bed and electric fan. The husband cleans the men's room; the wife is in charge of the ladies. Neither seems to think it odd to live inside a toilet. It's very convenient to live so close to work, they told me, smiling shyly.
As the first four-star toilet in the area, the Ju'er lavatory soon became a star attraction, drawing in customers from as far as four hutongs away. Mr. Yang, the local bicycle repairman, set up shop outside the loo to capitalise on the crowds. On most nights impromptu barbecue parties took place at the toilet's doorstep, organised by the entrepreneurial Wang Zhaoxin, affectionately known as Old Wang, who owned the cigarette-and-beer shop opposite.
A few stained couches, their insides spilling out, were set up. Others brought folded chairs. Mahjong sets and chessboards made an appearance. Soon a motley crew of regulars at the toilet entrance emerged and the locals jokingly began to call them the "W.C. Julebu" or the W.C. club.
Recently though, the club has lost some of its former panache, its chief organiser Old Wang having moved away. Wang's dilapidated apartment was demolished to make way for the glittering malls and bathroom-tiled "modern" structures the authorities believe behove the Olympic Games, forcing him to leave the hutong his family had lived in for half a century. For the W.C Julebu, like for many other communities in the city, the games have proved to be a double-edged sword
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Beijing's Olympic fervour has touched the hutongs in other ways beside the luxurious lavatories. The Beijing Organising Committee for the Olympic Games has identified five lacunae in hutong social etiquette it aims to redress by 2008. These include: Beijing-style name-calling, casual spitting, littering, disorderly queuing and not smiling.
Indeed the throaty skills of the Beijinger remain unsurpassed. For the spouse and I, an after-dinner stroll is akin to picking one's way through an open minefield; so careful we need be to avoid stepping straight into a freshly foaming gob of phlegm.
Morality index
However, the evil forces of littering and spitting are finding their nemesis in the civilising effects of potted plants and books. In addition to the star-rating system for loos, the city authorities have also instituted a "morality-evaluation index" that ranks neighbourhoods according to the level of refinement they have achieved. Sharing housework, speaking a foreign language, regular reading of newspapers, large book-collections and window-sills displaying potted plants boost the neighbourhood score on the civility index while spitting, alcohol abuse, and noisiness act as blackmarks.
Lurid posters showing uncivilised people littering on the road and hanging up their washing in public have gone up around the hutongs, intended to fill their beholders with shame. Outside our siheyuan, one picture of harried-looking young girls with a flock of birds releasing droppings on their heads caused me particular puzzlement. The poster had a big red slash running through the middle, indicating that the activity portrayed was a forbidden one. Was it intended for the birds, informing them that taking a dump on people's heads was prohibited?
Enlightenment came when a Chinese friend explained that it was in fact a public service announcement warning that raising pigeons at home was not a good idea.
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I sometimes try and imagine an ideal Olympic hutong. No pajama-clad denizens, sitting on their doorsteps peeling melon seeds. No afternoon naps on ripped-up beds put out in the alleyways for precisely that purpose. No sweet smell of drying laundry mingling with the pungent spices of "xiao chi" or street-side snacks. A sobering thought indeed.
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