tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-8573382596442861899.post5446226620652388187..comments2023-11-02T01:55:28.254-07:00Comments on A Canuck Amuck: The HarmattanGlennhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/17766968264733510251noreply@blogger.comBlogger2125tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-8573382596442861899.post-23682985816884777912008-02-27T08:08:00.000-08:002008-02-27T08:08:00.000-08:00Second comment...not so speechless, esp when Canad...Second comment...not so speechless, esp when Canadians talk about the weather [and specifically about temperatures]. I've come to realize that one of the most significant Canadian characteristics, despite our fondness for beer and hockey, is to talk about the weather. Wherever I go, I seem to make that a topic of conversation, and my non Canadian colleagues find it so amusing. After all, weather is something that simply is, so why talk about it? <BR/>It seems indelible in our national psyches to talk about the weather. I've seen Canadians meet in foreign lands for the first time and spend most of their time swapping stories about surviving winter. It becomes a one-up-man-ship deal -- Winnipeg is colder than Calgary which is colder than Edmonton [not], etc. <BR/>And if it isn't winter cold, then it's summer humidity and the attendant fight with black flies, mozzies, and such like. Alas, the mozzies in The Peg swarm in big dark black packs large enough to sweep small children away, almost pteradactyl like. <BR/>But my fun with weather as a Canuck on the road often focuses on tolerance -- not socio-economic issues, but abilities to cope. I was in Shanghai one December where the temps hovered around +12 Celsius. I had arrived from Toronto where the temps got up to a high of minus 12, and even lower with the wind chill, so I was as happy as a lark in spring. I shed my winter coat and walked around in a sweater -- it was downright balmy [in all senses of the word]. My Chinese colleagues wore winter coats, ear muffs, gloves, boots, and still shivered like hell... they wondered just how balmy I was in that light sweater. It turned out, however, that the outdoor temperatures told only part of the story. Central heating is rare in Shanghai, except in newly built westernized complexes. So my partner's offices were cold in a terribly damp way. They actually opened the windows to bring in the "relatively warmer outside air". Sitting at a desk with that dampness crawling up your leg and cramping your muscles was not fun. Even I had to admit that. Hot tea always helps. <BR/>But the opposite is even more oppressive...as in the summer heat of China. With temps hovering around +40 and humidity they don't even measure, discomfort reigns supreme. Central airconditioning is also relatively new, although area or room conditioners are found everywhere. Sitting in front of one of those in a local restaurant entails developing icicles on your nose as you fend off the heat and humidity outside. Interesting way to deal with weather other than speaking about it. <BR/>My Chinese friends took inordinate delight in having me visit Buddhist temples on the hottest most humid days. They were totally convinced that westerners are fat lazy sluggards unable to climb the simplest of mountains on a summer day. What they never understood [probably intentionally] was that it's more about metabolism and blood thickness and the need for insulation against winter than about being a slug. They would die in one of our winters, just as I was dying in all those temples on hot humid summer days. The great irony of a Buddhist temple is that it always entails some kind of climb "up the mountain" -- be it a real hill or never ending stair cases. The key to enlightenment is to climb to the top, sweating off buckets along the way. The irony is not in the sweat or pain, but in the fact that you reached the statue of the beatific Buddha at the top of this climb, and I could swear his smile was really a muted laugh at the expense of this sweaty, short, fat, balding white guy huffing and puffing his way to the top. While I was not amused, he certainly was. <BR/>In the end, it's what you see that counts the most. The Harmattan's fine particles of Saharan sand that hang in the air blotting out the mountains, is matched by the particulate hanging in the air in most Asian cities -- not natural by any means, but man-made pollution brought on by coal burning belchers. I have only rarely been in an Asian city where I can see the sky, and determine it is actually blue. Now that's frightening.<BR/>Keep the stories coming....VictorAnonymousnoreply@blogger.comtag:blogger.com,1999:blog-8573382596442861899.post-15318658889318590952008-02-27T07:36:00.000-08:002008-02-27T07:36:00.000-08:00First comment on you, Glenn: if you don't keep thi...First comment on you, Glenn: if you don't keep this Blog and publish these stories, I will never speak to you again. Your talent slays me. I so look forward to receiving each instalment as much for the style as for the story. You write so beautifully. I am speechless. VictorAnonymousnoreply@blogger.com