In Search of a Few Lumps of Coal

Typical gradient of Beijing sky on a sunny day. Blue above, turbid at the horizon.

Morning of the day when the pollution index literally went off the charts (above 500 is unmeasured).


In search of the pollution source-- carting coal at JiuChang art district.

I live in a high technology apartment. My roommate and I are not only able to control when the heat turns on, we are also able to control the degree of heat. In Beijing, this lifestyle is a luxury.

With luxuries come responsibilities, namely having to pay for the heat we use (many, but not all residential customers' landlords pay for their uninterrupted blasts of heat). When I first noticed that our coal gas meter was running low, I went to a neighborhood bank, on the advice of a classmate, who had been able to charge her gas card there. The tellers helpfully and eagerly informed me that I needed to go a different nearby bank.

The security guard (from all appearances working his after-middle-school job) at Bank B squashed all hopes of any easy resolution. Not only was I not in the right place, but he had no idea what I needed to do. When I pressed him for advice, he gave me detailed directions to Bank C. I didn't need to make the trek there to know that he was just trying to appease me and save face.

I went instead to Bank D, next door to the ATM that has never failed me, hoping the good luck would rub off. The teller sent me to Bank E, and I knew from her poise that she probably knew what she was talking about.

I learned that Bank E was indeed the proper coal recharging station, but after much fudging around with the machine, I was told that my card was broken.

Satisfied that I had at least come this far, I called it a day, and later went to the real estate office of my apartment complex, where after my landlord gave her blessing by phone, I was written a permission slip to be issued a new card.

Obtaining the card involved a 5 minute train and 30 minute bus ride to the outskirts of the city, and about an hour of walking in circles, to find the small office that mysteriously controlled the microchip in my kitchen. The moment of truth came when I discovered that the address I was given did not specify that the building was "east" or "west" of a given street. As I asked an old cabbage seller for directions, she threw her head back in hysterical laughter, as if she had never before heard a foreigner speak Chinese, before explaining that she never crosses onto the west side of the street so had no idea where the place was. When I finally arrived at the office to find a door ajar, the electronic coal keepers in vain searched for my landlord's name in the computer system, causing them quickly to conclude that she was a fraud and tax evader, and ours an illegal rental unit. I asked them to explain as much to her on the phone, and somehow the misunderstanding was resolved.