Read Online Lost on Planet China: One Man's Attempt to Understand the World's Most Mystifying Nation by J. Maarten Troost - Free Book Online
Authors: J. Maarten Troost
Tags: General, Social Science, Asia, History, Travel, china, Customs & Traditions, Essays & Travelogues
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smart people call particulate matter. In the United States, anything more than 50 micrograms of particulates per cubic meter of air is considered unsafe, leading authorities to issue red alerts advising children and elderly people to remain inside. In Beijing, the average particulate matter swirling through the air on any given day is 141. For a foreigner, even for someone accustomed to the haze of Sacramento, this is unimaginably foul.
“It’s very interesting air you have here in Beijing,” I noted to Meow Meow. “I don’t think I’ve ever seen anything like it before.”
“Yes. It is very dirty. More bad today because of dust storms last week.”
“Dust storms?” This only seemed to heighten the End Times atmosphere.
“Yes, every spring we get dust storms. You can still see the sand.”
It was true. Beijing remained coated in a fine layer of sand. This, too, was unexpected for me. When I had envisioned Beijing, I didn’t think it would be particularly green, but I certainly didn’t expect it to be quite so brown. Then again, this too is a new problem for China. More than a quarter of China is a desert, and sadly for the people of Beijing, the Gobi Desert is coming for them. Not more than fifty miles from the center of Beijing, great sand dunes are moving inexorably toward the city. Forty years ago, sandstorms were rarely seen here, but today, they are a seasonal event. Every year, the shachenbo, or dust-cloud tempest, deposits more than a million tons of sand on Beijing, and some scientists believe that within the next couple of decades Beijing will be swallowed by the Gobi Desert.
“So you’ve got hideous pollution compounded by dust storms,” I observed.
“Los Angeles is polluted too,” noted Meow Meow.
I nearly blurted out, Thanks to China, but, of course, that wasn’t entirely true. We’re pretty good at pollution too. We didn’t just hand over the title of world’s greatest polluter, we made China earn it. Indeed, somehow, inexplicably, we’ve even made owning an SUV seem like a patriotic thing to do. Nevertheless, the refrain Los Angeles is polluted too is something I would come to hear often in China, as if the swirling clouds of toxins that churn through Beijing are merely the unavoidable cost of development. But I’ve seen polluted cities before. I’ve been to Mexico City. I’ve trampled through the soot-stained streets of Katowice, a grim city in industrial Poland. And I’ve spent more time than I cared to in Los Angeles. And I can state with some confidence that none of these places have air quite so vile as Beijing’s.
“Do you want to walk or catch taxi?” Meow Meow asked.
I wanted to walk. I figured that the quicker I became accustomed to the pollution of Beijing, the quicker my headache would recede. Perhaps my eyes would stop itching too. And possibly my lungs might stop wheezing as if I’d just chain-smoked three packs of Marlboro Reds. So I wanted to walk through Beijing. For health reasons.
Once upon a time, the capital was regarded as a fussy, imperial sort of town full of officious bureaucrats who disdained provincials. This suggested an orderly place. Clearly, this must have been a long time ago. What I saw now as we walked along was mayhem. In the dismal haze, people screamed into their cell phones. Beggars pleaded for money. And everywhere there were crowds, seething masses of people, striding up sidewalks, filling underpasses, crossing roads as speeding cars cleaved them apart. And there was noise, an earthshaking wail of jackhammers and buzz saws and, of course, the ever-present howl of car horns. In China, I’d discovered, when getting into a car, the first thing a driver is expected to do is blast the horn. This is to be repeated in ten-second intervals, and because, by my count, there are now a bazillion cars in Beijing the result is an endless honk, a ceaseless clamor amplified by the ear-rattling grind of construction. Half the city seemed to be going
“It’s very interesting air you have here in Beijing,” I noted to Meow Meow. “I don’t think I’ve ever seen anything like it before.”
“Yes. It is very dirty. More bad today because of dust storms last week.”
“Dust storms?” This only seemed to heighten the End Times atmosphere.
“Yes, every spring we get dust storms. You can still see the sand.”
It was true. Beijing remained coated in a fine layer of sand. This, too, was unexpected for me. When I had envisioned Beijing, I didn’t think it would be particularly green, but I certainly didn’t expect it to be quite so brown. Then again, this too is a new problem for China. More than a quarter of China is a desert, and sadly for the people of Beijing, the Gobi Desert is coming for them. Not more than fifty miles from the center of Beijing, great sand dunes are moving inexorably toward the city. Forty years ago, sandstorms were rarely seen here, but today, they are a seasonal event. Every year, the shachenbo, or dust-cloud tempest, deposits more than a million tons of sand on Beijing, and some scientists believe that within the next couple of decades Beijing will be swallowed by the Gobi Desert.
“So you’ve got hideous pollution compounded by dust storms,” I observed.
“Los Angeles is polluted too,” noted Meow Meow.
I nearly blurted out, Thanks to China, but, of course, that wasn’t entirely true. We’re pretty good at pollution too. We didn’t just hand over the title of world’s greatest polluter, we made China earn it. Indeed, somehow, inexplicably, we’ve even made owning an SUV seem like a patriotic thing to do. Nevertheless, the refrain Los Angeles is polluted too is something I would come to hear often in China, as if the swirling clouds of toxins that churn through Beijing are merely the unavoidable cost of development. But I’ve seen polluted cities before. I’ve been to Mexico City. I’ve trampled through the soot-stained streets of Katowice, a grim city in industrial Poland. And I’ve spent more time than I cared to in Los Angeles. And I can state with some confidence that none of these places have air quite so vile as Beijing’s.
“Do you want to walk or catch taxi?” Meow Meow asked.
I wanted to walk. I figured that the quicker I became accustomed to the pollution of Beijing, the quicker my headache would recede. Perhaps my eyes would stop itching too. And possibly my lungs might stop wheezing as if I’d just chain-smoked three packs of Marlboro Reds. So I wanted to walk through Beijing. For health reasons.
Once upon a time, the capital was regarded as a fussy, imperial sort of town full of officious bureaucrats who disdained provincials. This suggested an orderly place. Clearly, this must have been a long time ago. What I saw now as we walked along was mayhem. In the dismal haze, people screamed into their cell phones. Beggars pleaded for money. And everywhere there were crowds, seething masses of people, striding up sidewalks, filling underpasses, crossing roads as speeding cars cleaved them apart. And there was noise, an earthshaking wail of jackhammers and buzz saws and, of course, the ever-present howl of car horns. In China, I’d discovered, when getting into a car, the first thing a driver is expected to do is blast the horn. This is to be repeated in ten-second intervals, and because, by my count, there are now a bazillion cars in Beijing the result is an endless honk, a ceaseless clamor amplified by the ear-rattling grind of construction. Half the city seemed to be going
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