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I admit it, I can't do without a mobile phone
Anyone who has watched Australian television will almost certainly remember a commercial for a roll-on deodorant called "Mum."
Its clever message had variations on a theme where an attractive towel-draped young woman revealed: "I can do without my washing machine, I can do without my coffee, I can even do without my car. But I can't do without my Mum." That commercial sprang to mind when writing this story, because I wondered what most Chinese urban dwellers cannot possibly do without. In my view, it is their mobile phones. On foot, on bikes, in private cars, taxis and public transport, they are in constant use. Just the other day I was in the men's room at a restaurant. The caller had one hand on his phone, and the other - well I guess you get the picture. Stubborn resistance Before coming to China last year, I resisted buying a mobile phone. I had never used one, unable, or perhaps unwilling to come to grips - mentally or physically - with the one form of technology which Chinese of all ages seem to handle as naturally as their chopsticks. My daughter nearly drove us crazy when she bought her first mobile in Melbourne. My wife and I were faced with huge bills as the device became irresistible, and our talkative little girl now a teenager, became addicted. "I promise I'll cut down," she would say, but nothing changed. It got worse. "We did OK without one," was our feeble retort, and while I conceded their usefulness in times of emergency, I objected contributing to the mobile phone companies' rapidly rising profits. It did not take long to realize that China not only has more people than anywhere else; it seems everyone of them possesses a mobile phone. I would later discover many, including children, own more than one. Everywhere I go, my ears echo to ring tones of songs familiar and unfamiliar - some I have not heard for years, including one in stark contrast to the hot Beijing summer: "I'm Dreaming of a White Christmas." On my first day at China Radio International (CRI) last year, one of the first questions my new bosses and colleagues asked, was: "What's your mobile number?" When I replied proudly "I don't have one," they looked at me in amazement and asked: "When are you getting one?"My usual response of "I can live without a mobile" later changed to "I'm looking for one," as I realized I belonged to an exclusive Beijing club. Soon I found two other members, a young man from Tanzania and a woman from Cuba, both working at CRI. Were we the only people in Beijing without a mobile phone, I wondered? Would we eventually succumb to the power of the monster communicator? So is it possible to live and work in a huge city such as Beijing without a mobile phone? "No" I can hear you say. Believe me, it is not only possible, but rewarding, especially in an emergency when there is no pay phone in sight. Borrowing a phone My first encounter was inside the subway where I had arranged to meet a young man and his girlfriend at a pre-arranged 4 pm. The young man's family have accepted me into their lives as I described in a previous article. I had written down his mobile number just in case, but was told to wait on the Muxidi subway station platform in central Beijing for their train to arrive. A quarter of an hour went by and I presumed they were running late, so I waited. But after half an hour, I became concerned, thinking I had misunderstood their instructions, and that they may have been waiting for me at another station. "If only I had a mobile phone," I muttered to myself. Taking a deep breath and calming down, I reasoned that people around me had them, so all I needed to do was to ask someone else to ring. If you saw my first story, you will recall that I cannot speak more than a few words of Chinese. It was time for urgent action, with the accent on "acting." I approached a man in his 30s standing nearby, greeted him with a polite ni hao (hello), and started performing a charade of someone talking on a mobile phone. Then I produced a piece of paper with the number written out. My face turned bright red as he responded in perfect English: "You want me to ring that number on my mobile phone?" "Oh, I'm sorry, I didn't know you would speak English," I replied feebly. "But I don't own one and am worried I may have missed meeting some friends." He dialled, and contact brought immediate relief. My party was simply running late and would appear on the train about to arrive. In the meantime, my caller wanted to know what I was doing in China, then explained he was a doctor at a busy Beijing hospital. "My wife's also a doctor," he added. "And she's running late too. But we both have mobile phones," he added with a wry smile. The train pulled in, and my friends stepped out with apologies for being late. I introduced them to the doctor, and as I waved goodbye, he gave me some advice: "Get yourself a mobile phone. I can't do without one." I could understand his need as a doctor, but I was not convinced after the free "consultation." A few weeks later I was thrust into a similar situation while waiting to meet the same people under the giant portrait of Mao Zedong at the Tian'anmen Rostrum. I arrived at the appointed time, but there were no familiar faces in the growing crowd. Were my friends trying to teach me a lesson? Could they see me, and decided to illustrate how easy it would have been to call them if I had my own mobile phone? I was not giving in. After the doctor's "house-call," maybe I could do it again. Taking another deep breath, I approached a young woman, but she ignored me, possibly thinking I wanted a different favour. I remembered there is safety in numbers, and walked up to two women standing close by. While my Chinese verbal skills have advanced slightly, on this occasion I could only ask in English if they could speak my language. Both replied a negative buhui or "No." So I smiled, did my charade, and produced the piece of paper. The women grinned at each other, realizing this strange mobile-less foreigner needed help. At least they did not walk off. After answering the call, my friends appeared just a short distance away. They assured me they were not hiding, but like the doctor, their message of relief was punctuated by: "If only you had a mobile phone." You might think I would have admitted defeat, but I became quite confident asking people for help with their phones. I enjoyed the experience of making contact with new Beijingers. One incident was especially memorable. I arranged to visit the Beijing Broadcasting Institute in eastern Beijing where a teacher had offered to show me around. "Just call my mobile when you get here," she advised, "and I'll come to the gate to meet you." What could be easier, I wondered, and wrote the number in my notebook. Once there, I walked up to a pay phone and rang her number, but it gave out a noise which sounded neither like a ring tone nor an engaged signal. I was puzzled and waited a few minutes before trying again, only to get the same response. Presuming the phone must be faulty, I approached a student and asked him if he could ring from his mobile. The young man not only offered to call, but was excited. He kept trying the number. "It sounds not right," my new friend explained. "Maybe you have wrong numbers." I thanked him and suggested he must have other things to do, but he was adamant about staying. He took me to lunch on campus then showed me drawings from his studies on radio station transmission tower design. Meanwhile, the signal to the teacher remained blocked. As I prepared to leave, he had some advice similar to that given by others: "If you had a mobile phone, you could have got the teacher to call you and recorded her number." He was right, especially when I returned to my apartment and realized I had left a digit off the number while writing it down. When I rang to apologize, she was understanding, adding in a polite but emphatic tone: "You'll just have to get a mobile phone." Had I at last got the message? Was this the turning point? True emergency After my end of year holiday in Australia and return to Beijing in March, Li Maoqi, the chief anchor at my new employer CCTV 9, broke down my resistance once and for all. When I told him I had survived six months in China without a mobile phone, he simply smiled. "But I have never had one," I continued. "I don't even know how to turn them on and I certainly can't send text messages." This time he laughed, adding: "It's child's play." Then memories of my daughter came back, as I declared: "I think I can live without one." His laughter increased and then he made me an offer I could not refuse. "I have a spare one and you can have it. It's not new, quite an outdated model, but you'll find it easy to operate." This was it... my time had come to make the great technological leap, even if someone had to push me over the edge. Five months later I have to admit the phone has been useful. I do not sound too enthusiastic do I? Admittedly, my friends keep in touch more regularly, but I have not been completely won over. My thumb muscles are still developing and it takes me ages to send an SMS. Unlike my bike which, as I explained last week, has become my friend, I simply tolerate my mobile. I find other people's phones an intrusion especially when I am having a face-to-face conversation which they abandon to answer a call. I was dismayed at my first concert in China when phones continued to ring during a performance by the China National Symphony Orchestra at the National Library Concert Hall. I do not even like the feel of it in my pocket. When I go out of my apartment, I usually leave the phone switched on, but conveniently "forget" to take it with me, preferring to check messages on my return. But these habits changed suddenly last Saturday night. I was caught when the big storm hit Beijing, and tried to find my way home from the Xuanwu District to the Friendship Hotel. I had been visiting my Chinese family, who were reluctant to let me leave, but I needed to get home early that evening. We tried unsuccessfully to find a taxi, so I boarded a bus, then got off at the subway. From Muxidi I caught my favourite 717 bus to the hotel, but it hardly moved and became completely stuck in the worst traffic snarl I have ever seen. The only thing driving was the rain. From my seat I watched the scenes of chaos, the toots of cars and buses competing with the sounds of thunder and lightning. At least it was dry in the bus, but after an hour I was getting restless. I worried my extended family would be concerned, knowing I was possibly in a dangerous situation. Passengers around me were on their mobile phones constantly, but this time I did not dare try to interrupt them. After an hour, I decided to leave the comfort of the bus to challenge the elements. My first step was into a puddle, so deep it drenched my shoes and socks. I walked briskly looking back toward the bus which still had not moved beyond the Diaoyutai State Guest House where I got off. After puddle-jumping for almost an hour, I made it to the Capital Gymnasium, eventually reaching the apartment four hours after I had started out - a journey that usually takes only 25 minutes. I immediately called the family who had rung several times, getting frantic after seeing the TV news of cars submerged by flood waters. "Why didn't you answer your mobile?" they asked. I confessed I had left it behind. This, on the one day I needed it, not for my own peace of mind, but for others. Yes I have to admit total defeat. Mobile phones make sense, especially on a night like Saturday when the elements struck Beijing. I could not help thinking that Captain Smith would have found one useful when the Titanic struck that iceberg in 1912. Next time I will be wearing my lifeline. I just hope I do not forget to recharge it the night before.
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