Shanghai Lights

By Patti Mohr©

Shanghai feels bereft of culture. The pounding noise and dust of the multiple jackhammers covers all corners of the city, leaving people almost no escape from the city’s rapid economic growth. Massive cranes accent the view of new tall buildings. Many of Shanghai’s skyscrapers sparkle with Las Vegas-style lights. And they seem to incite the same kind of emotive response that the lights of America’s gambling-capital draw from its visitors.

Fortune and glamour await,” the Shanghai lights seem to say. “Be a part of the change.”

Some buildings support huge Times Square-style video screens advertising various products. Others host laser shows of lights that dance to their buildings’ rooftops. My favorite skyscraper is a giant “BM” building that shines with bright, blue lights that span the outer walls from top to bottom. The long, vertical stripes make it easy for me to find my way back to my hotel, which is located directly across from the BM building. I wonder if other Shanghai visitors use similar markers to navigate their ways around the city streets at night.

Below the shine of the skyline is a more complicated scene.

As tall skyscrapers rise up, squat one-story houses come down, sometimes violently. These old buildings house the “old” Shanghainese—“old” in the sense that they live in a traditional fashion even as modernity knocks on the door. By Western-standards, they appear to crowd together in filthy, red-roofed structures, which can sprawl across entire city blocks. In some neighborhoods, it appears that each family lives in two-and-a-half room units. Two of the rooms in the units are fully enclosed. The extra half room is partially enclosed. These rooms, which look more like a wall, appear to function as a kitchen as it includes a rudimentary sink. One side of these outer rooms opens up to the alley. Women rinse dishes off in the outdoor faucet, men wander shirtless down the inner corridors, and the occasional child plays with a grandparent or neighbor in the alley just outside.

In other neighborhoods, the housing units that border the streets double as storefronts. The front room offers groceries, clothing or sewing services to the passerby. In more traveled areas, the storefronts sell t-shirts, knick knacks, eat-in food or massage services.

What is striking is that many of these old neighborhoods are located right next to newly built buildings. Seeing the contrasts of tall and short and modern and old, I wonder how easily and comfortably longtime residents coincide with hotel guests and with occupants of commercial offices. In some cases, the locals profit from the change and transience. They sell cheap goods to hotel guests at higher prices than they would otherwise be able to sell them. And some of the more curious types seem to enjoy the diverse foot traffic. Men playing Mah Jongg and cards gawk at white Western women walking by, gawking back at the locals.

In other cases, modernity seems to threaten the locals’ way of life. Seniors napping restfully in the shade seem disturbed by the intrusion of foot traffic. And some shopkeepers seem frustrated that they cannot sell goods for the prices they name.

It is easy to overlook the contrast between old and new in the midst of a busy business or tourist schedule. But once aware of it, the variations become difficult to ignore. It wasn’t until my last day in Shanghai that I noticed the degree to which the neighborhood adjoining my hotel was in a state of extreme flux. As I wondered around the streets and alleys without a particular agenda or destination, I saw the neighborhood as if seeing it for the first time.

Down the street from my hotel, an entire half-block of land had been razed and enclosed by black walls and a chain-linked fence. There was no life behind the fence except for two small kittens that seemed lost in the desolate space. They crawled up next to a tiny shed—the only building in the yard—and seemed to wait for their likely death.

The outer wall of the lot advertised the coming attraction: “Grade A International Office Building, Plaza 108, Shopping, Leisure, Business.” The property is owned by Shanghai Guangtian Real Estate Development Co., which was acquired by a Hong Kong-based developer in 2008. It is considered a prime location due to its proximity to the Bund and East Nanjing Road.

Directly across the street from the lot was a row of two-story shops. Some were semi-modern and decorated with colorful Chinese signs; other shops were traditional and were bordered only by neighboring clothes lines and fruit baskets. I wondered what the street would look like once the new skyscraper housing Western shops was built. The locals who rode by on bikes and motor scooters, straddling the occasional car, seemed indifferent to the contrasting sides of the street.

Signs of Life Amid Rubble

On another street, directly behind the hotel on Tanggu Lu, as a line of two-story buildings. They were joined by their red roofs, which had been nearly demolished. Much of the outer structure stood firm while the inside was gutted. Concrete blocks and rubble filled the floors inside the vacant rooms. Looking closer, I could see that at least two of the units were lit and occupied. I wondered, why wasn’t this neighborhood razed and removed like the one located two blocks away?

“What happened to this building?” I asked a local man as I pointed at the dilapidated structure.

He said something to me in the Shanghainese—a local dialect that differs from Mandarin—as he made forceful hand motions, suggesting that a demolition had taken place. He wanted me to film him with his Chihuahua, and I obliged, though his dog was unnerved by the camera.

I looked in vain for someone who could tell me what happened to the building and explain why people were still living in a structure so depleted of firmness and form. Not finding anyone who could speak English, I crossed the street and wondered into an alleyway of the partially-demolished block of buildings. Peering into the window on my right, I saw exposed brick along the opposite wall. The ceiling was gone. A long and thin green pipe lay diagonally against the wall and entered a second-floor window. Below, on the ground were piles of concrete particles, trash, and remnants of plastic materials. All I could distinguish from the alley was a pile of grey concrete dotted by red, blue, green, white and yellow trash-like materials. A few blades of green foliage emanated through the trash and reached for the sky. These weeds, which grew on the ground floor and in open window sills, suggested that some time had passed since the roof and residents disappeared.

As I turned to my left, I saw another vacant and rectangular structure with open windows and roof. Undistinguishable trash, twigs and concrete rubble lined the window sill and ground beyond it. Looking closer, I noticed an eleven-digit number under Chinese symbols marking the outer wall.

Stepping deeper into the vacant alley, I was reminded of Pompeii—the old Roman city which was destroyed and covered with volcanic ash in 79 A.D. I wondered what archeologists would say about this community. Unlike Pompeii, this neighborhood had consisted entirely of lower class residents. And, more striking, the residential quarter still showed signs of life.

Fifty feet down the alley clothes hung loosely on a clothes line, which intersected the two side walls. The garments—a blue and white striped shirt, black pants, and yellow and blue shirts—looked slightly worn but fully functional. Despite the dirt in and around the alley, the white garments hanging among the dust looked clean and bright.

Meanwhile, trash lined the corners of the alley, and graffiti marked the far wall. I walked towards it, not knowing what it said. As I moved forward, I saw piles of trash aligning the wall at the end of the alley, indicating some circumstance lying beyond my comprehension.

I turned to another alley on my right. It was darkened by the shade of the evening twilight. Yet, as I peered into it, I heard voices and saw people gathered around a light at the far end of the passageway about 40 feet ahead. I stared at them in astonishment that life could exist in the midst of the desolate rubble. Suddenly, I felt nervous and anxious as I realized my intrusion upon the gathering. The people on the other end of the dark alley seemed to sit comfortably in a circle of chairs in a well-lit living area. Their conversation was steady and relaxed.

I wished I could speak with them about their neighborhood and their way of life. But the language barrier made that impossible, as did my discomfort with having invaded their private space. I turned to leave and resigned myself to having questions unanswered—questions about the people living in the center of oblivion; questions about why the block had been partially torn down and then left alone; and questions about the new China.