Wooden fragments fell from the scarlet frame of the windows. Posters featuring Shanghai’s city motto were half scrapped. The mottled wall paper, tinged with grey, only seemed more dilapidated under the biting winder coldness, where the sun was no where to be seen.
Northern Waitan smelled of neglect.
“Na naneng legei gede a” Na - you. Naneng - why. Legai ge de - here. The murmur in traditional Shanghai dialect added vitality to this deserted block. Zhang was the first person we encountered on the street. As a guard that oversees this demolition area, he seems surprised in face of our presence. I noticed the wrinkles creeping across his face, half-hidden beneath a cozy plush hat and resembling the scratches the ruthless winter wind left upon the outworn wallpaper.
“I’ve been overseeing this area for four years. The housing flats were removed one by one, getting shorter everyday, gradually turning into bare land. Shops vanished along, the only remnant of the past was the wet market on the other side, which would soon be removed as well.”
Zhang shared his distant memory of Northern Waitan, when demolition has not yet begun. He described the bustling streets, the jubilant crowds of pedestrians, the never fading night light, and the interlacing whistles of bypassing cars.
“The past splendor of this land could be juxtaposed with Nanjing Road (today's fancy CBD)”. He spoke with a dramatic tone, paying deliberate effort to convince us about the credibility of his words. I sensed melancholy and nostalgia as he rubbed his unsettling fingers against his cheek. The bustling scene was in memory. Embracing reality, what welcomed us was bleakness and a musty scent of neglect that has long replaced past liveliness.
When asked about the schemes of demolition, Zhang shared various ways of government compensation. “Sometimes, new houses are directly allotted. In other cases, monetary compensation is offered.”
We asked him, in Shanghai dialect, about the residents who were unwilling to move - the “Dingzi hu”. Zhang teased us, claiming our Shanghai dialect as “unorthodox”, admitting how the world of the younger generation is long dominated by mandarin alone. He said Shanghainese is the root that breeds every Shanghai citizen, the culture thread that tie us together, and encourages us to practice the neglected dialect more often. Then, he began his stories of encounters with “Dingzi hu”.
“It’s hard for residents and the government to forge consensus upon the amount of compensation that’s satisfying for both parties. For instance, some flats are unrecognized and illegitimate today,” he shared, “before the reform of Shanghai’s housing policy, people were allowed to purchase land and construct their own housings with a limit of three flats. However, the administration wasn’t solid at that time, so some residents built five. As a result, the residents demand compensation corresponding to five flats, while the maximum the government is willing to pay is three.”
Ages have passed since the construction of such housings, generations came and left, imprinting ethereal memories upon the dusty furniture that now emit a musty scent. Nobody knew whose responsibility it was for constructing excessive flats, but the issue lingers, taking the form of the compensation controversies.
Such stories occur repetitively in Northern Waitan day after day. Despite “Dingzihu”, the plosives of the knocking hammer never ceased.
“None of us are sure about the exact years this demolition will continue for. Eventually, the dilapidated streets will turn into a modern, fashionable hub, like Xujiahui. Shabby lanes are the obsolete products of the last century, and they’re no longer needed in this era.”
The image of collapsing bricks floating in my mind as Zhang’s words resonated beside me. I wonder whether elderly residents’ sense of belonging and familiarity towards this city collapses along the housings. How much compensation does emotive bonds within historical remnants cost? I’m unsure about the answer, but I guess it could be compensated in its own way.
The scent of neglect pervades in the air. I tried to find a shadow, a pedestrian, a resident, who filled up this immense hollowness of the Northern Waitan city block. I found this old man, Zhang, who used Shanghai dialect to remind me of the bonds that tied Shanghai together despite the disintegrated housings. Perhaps timeless culture ties – invisible and deep rooted – are what persists in the face of the forever changing appearance of our metropolis.
We waved goodbye.
“Zaiwai”, I said, in my shoddy dialect.
“Zaiwai”, he replied.
Comments