hits

Friday, April 29, 2011

lights, camera...

Perhaps it was whilst watching the electrician hack at my ceiling [screwdriver in one hand, cigarette in other, balanced on wooden chest of drawers and chair] that I realised China no longer shocks me.

Or perhaps it was when a light bulb exploded inches from Sparkie's face [still balanced atop furniture] and the man didn't even blink.

Must admit that two-hour pantomime in which light was restored to my shitty apartment was as entertaining as a made-for-TV movie.

The scene: Friday morning. The stars of the show arrive [two days and one hour late; not conducive to warm welcome]. Monkey-like man whom I take to be electrician [in torn jeans with broken fly, wielding official-looking toolbelt] lollops into my apartment. Is promptly followed by one of my Chinese colleagues [for translation purposes] and two heavyset uniformed soldiers.

Sparkie's friends, apparently.

All three men have a good nosy around my humble abode. No doubt take in empty baijiu bottles on windowsill and threadbare knickers hanging from hat stand [I don't usually have visitors].

Sparkie points out that electricity works. I point out that I know this. Lights are tested. Lights found not to work. Light fittings inspected. Wiring declared faulty.

Bathroom inspected. Solider 1 produces digital camera and takes photo. Explanation not given.

Men set about clearing a table. Table dragged to centre of living room. Chair added. Up goes sparkie. Unscrews ugly '70s chandelier and deposits on floor. Plaster and bits of wire sent flying as hole in ceiling mercilessly attacked with crude tools. Chunk of ceiling scones me in the head. I move.

Continuous stream of Chinese between three pals. Probably discussing my laundry.

Soldier 1 lights cigarette. I send him out. Solider 2 sniggers.

Hours pass. More plaster flung around room. More Chinese banter. Sparkie attempts to use back of wrench to hammer staples across ceiling. My colleague disappears and returns bearing {rust?]stained hatchet. Duly used as hammer.

At some point, wiring restored.

Assume job is complete when men abruptly storm out of apartment, having re-attached chandelier and dragged chest of drawers back against wall. Leave behind dead lightbulbs, several metres of wiring and sour smell.

I stand amongst ceiling rubble and consider all that I have learned.

Now know that tradesmen care not for punctuality, carrying tools or OSH. Or English. And that a photo of my bathroom is now the property of the People's Liberation Army.

And that my lights [all two bulbs of them] work.

Have odd feeling this won't be the last I'll see of my new friends.

No comments:

Post a Comment