| Maximo Park Diary Entries |
| These are diary entries by Maximo Park members from the Official Maximo Park Website. |
Shanghai by day |
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| 13 Dec, 2006 |
A dirty fog swims above the water. The Huangpu river itself ripples olive.
A woman in a maroon leather jacket holds her son up to the ledge so he can get a better view of the tall, clinical buildings that are dug into the opposite riverbank. The kid holds a half-munched corn on the cob, wrapped in a transparent plastic bag. It looks like a disected reptile, bright yellow on the outside, but flaky, skeletal and faded where it's been nibbled. A remnant is stuck to the boy's cheek as he is returned to the ground, gently.
Apparently, this high-rise skyline has sprouted over the last fifteen years, replacing the flat fields where crops would grow. Parts of it are dated visions of a future that didn't arrive; spikes on top of globes on top of concrete strands, coloured like Christmas baubles; festive reds and garish golds. But, it all seems muted by the dust and dirt, negating each ostentatious colouring or
improbable glass curve.
It makes me feel quite calm, even as I breathe it in.
Behind me, 'The Bund' is spread out and colonial, its grandeur interrupted by the occasional advertising hoarding, aloft on thin stalks. Chinese flags wave about from the peak of each building, many of them financial or diplomatic centres, much more Western in their conception and their usage.
Clock towers have the same intricate designs that squiggle across the clockface of Big Ben, complete with Roman numerals. I have to remind myself I'm in China when I walk along this strip.
Down a side street, construction workers dismantle bamboo scaffolding, cutting the twine that binds each tube until the strands drift to the ground on the faint breeze.
Meanwhile, a man kneels over a single bicycle wheel, knocking away at its middle with a hammer.
Mopeds scuttle by within the strands of space left by larger
vehicles. Many of them are emblazoned by transfers, both freshly applied and also scabbily peeling; bodywork that's been customised by a favourite cartoon or colourful phrase.
Two red-headed figurines embrace whilst glued to the top of a giant wedding cake as I pass shops trading in fake goods. One of the next shops is closed and unattended, but there's a shivering cat huddled and curled into a red washing-up
bowl. It lies on the middle shelf in the window, alongside a cactus and a sun-bleached array of mobile phone adverts. A man clambers down from a hole in the ceiling and I realise that the shop is actually open. He sits behind the counter amongst random junk.
The streets are full of washing lines bearing limp clothes, too damp to billow.
So many of the bicycles are carrying strange objects. I've never seen so many precariously balanced cardboard boxes on one tiny vehicle. Or, for that matter,a rusty gas cannister riding pillion or a loud tannoy giving out a pre-recorded speech whilst
the rider looks on disinterestedly.
A bill poster shows the heavily battered face of a man next to a pair of black, branded underpants. I can't read the information but it mentions someone's height. It's obviously an appeal for information, but there's something absurd about it as well as something dreadful.
At night the city transforms...
Paul And The Park |
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