But these newly bourgeois families still believe that China is the pits. They long for life in London, Paris or LA and usually spend their holidays and cash there to escape the sweaty wave of domestic tourism at Spring Festival. They fiercely compete to send their baobeis to the top league international schools, and are shocked and appalled at the lack of foreign classmates. And if they can't have life in the West? They will buy a bit of the West to have at home.
The trade in au pairs, or for visa purposes 'cultural exchange students', is lucrative business in China. A wealthy family will shell out the equivalent of £8,000 yearly membership to a company who promises to find them an English speaking au-pair, and an additional one grand per month they have said au-pair under their roof. The company basically acts as a middleman, recruiting naive, wanderlusting youngsters to embark on a once-in-a-lifetime adventure: living, eating, sleeping with a real Chinese family in exchange for a few hours' English playtime per week, all expenses paid.
For me, it was the ideal doorway into China for free.
Unfortunately, demand is much stronger than supply, which is why these intermediary companies do so well. But they are at the mercy of the host families who expect value for money from the person they effectively buy, despite the fact that the latter pockets only a fraction of the family's investment (standard pay is around £100 per month). It's a huge conflict of interests.
After studying minimal Chinese at uni, it seemed logical to go and discover the Middle Kingdom in its physical, verifiable actualness. But I had no money. From a quick "go to china for free" google search, "Au-pair in China" was one of the many algorithmic responses that seemed less shadowy.
Widely-held consensus and rare encounters have unscientifically shown that Chinese kids are far more obedient than their UK counterparts (it's worth mentioning I despise children). What's more, as I wanted to get improve my Chinese, I would have to go neck deep and join a family unit. Google's advice seemed like a valid solution to the UK employment quagmire, of which I'd grown phobic. In spite of concerned friends' remarks of "but... I thought you hated kids?", I filled an application and got an instant response.
Suddenly I was in Chengdu. (I'm not going to talk about the process of applying for a visa.) My charge was a little girl of five whose American English was virtually fluent. Pie-faced, virtuous and dressed in magenta Versace, Lucy was the irritating embodiment of the one-child policy's Little Empress symptom. Only with one difference: she had a brother.
Lucy's elder brother Dingding suffered from cerebral palsy, so he essentially didn't exist. Unlike most disabled children in his country, he had not been abandoned or killed and lived in the family home watching repetitive videos on his iPad in relative peace. A good boy, he was different from his sister in that he was unspoilt and unappreciated. When his existence was acknowledged, it was through threats with a lighter or beatings with a backscratcher (later used for similar purposes for the golden retriever we got). Strangers in the street would often stare and shout at him when he hit them. He and I communicated little, but when we did, he'd usually say HELLO and ask me about Spiderman or in one instance, I'd try to prevent him from masturbating on the plane.
Dayi took primary care of him. Chinese families have a myriad of family members in one house. Pudgy, Pob haircut and crescent-slit eyes, Dayi did little besides act as Dingding's carer and watch soap operas. Towards the the end she found a new hobby in being my nemesis and spreading rumours that I was trying to poison the children. She was like a Chinese Hans Christian Andersen. If I had a customer reviews page, Dayi'd give me one star and the comment: "you don't know where she's been."
Dayi's toady accomplice Lei Ayi was the slavelike housemaid who worshipped her employers. Lei Ayi's servility fascinated me. She was on call 24 hours a day. One night the host dad got back at 2am with drunken associates and a whole goat which she was ordered to cook that very instant, in her pyjamas. As I was awake, she meekly asked if I could help hold its body still while she hacked away at its spine on the patio. From 6am she would clean, tidy, watch Dingding when Dayi was physically or emotionally not there, and generally undertook the work of about three people. Unlike other neighbourhood Ayis however, she had no time to gossip or socialise and had zero days off a week. Her monthly pay was 3500 RMB (£350).
I pitied Lei Ayi before she started hiding fruit from me and yelling in Sichuanese. Such hard graft from a woman of 54 is superhuman and I suggested she find a more rewarding job in an expat household. But no, she enjoyed scuttling at the behest of her owners, running and shouting "I'm coming!" as soon as she heard her
The orders came from the despotic matriarch. MJ was an iconic tiger-mother, glistening in Chanel and draped in mismatched Burberry. She was no airhead yummy mummy though. Determined that her daughter was, and would remain, the best, she bought the kid nauseating amounts of toys and clothes. Understandably the woman expected results in return, specifically piano prodigality, which for Lucy was a deal-breaker. Daily hour-long piano practice was ritualistic torture. The mother would be screaming "WHERE IS YOUR BRAIN" at the small girl trying to play Ode to Joy with tears and snot streaming down her clothes.
The kid's traumatic upbringing was illustrated in one particularly memorable event where she deliberately peed on the floor in front of guests. It was impressive. The other children were ecstatic. She was also pretty chuffed with herself until after the guests went home whereupon MJ took that omnipresent backscratcher to her baby's bottom in a big way. The bruises were hefty so I took a photo.
The child regularly threatened to kill herself and would start pinching her midriff in an attempt to rip out her intestines. It was a comical performance. Had she been related to me in any way I'd have been concerned about her emotional development. As it was, I just counted the months until the end of my contract and laughed pityingly at her future boyfriends.
Mr Zhao was elusive and nocturnal. He never spoke to me but he ran some sort of freight racket and took his accomplices golfing, which these days is condemned as an anti-Socialist activity of corrupt elites. Occasionally he offered me fruit, which I would eat pointedly in front of Lei Ayi. He compensated for his absence by throwing money at his children. On several occasions Lucy called me Dad, and it was not accidental.
We went on a ton of holidays which they deemed a treat I should be grateful for but which I saw as 24/7 childcare. The sort of places you should be barred from if you have a slobbery parasite attached to the end of your arm: hot springs, 5-star hotels, coconut beaches, historical monuments, places with sexy men. It was an unspoken assumption that in exchange for all these happy outings, not to mention the outrageous feasts (featuring shark fin soup), I would gladly overlook my contracted 25 weekly hours to be a "member of the family". That "member" who is poisonous and unclean because she drinks cold water and doesn't have nightly foot baths.
There were good times. Like when Lucy would tell her school chums about pollution and Hong Kong's political situation, or go off on one when people threw litter or gave her a toy "for girls". The best times were rare like glittery turds, when we could go to a friend's to play and I could fester in self-pity with other au pairs who had also been purchased by rich families. Those were the best days.
Qiubi was like a humping meteorite of fuzz and drool whose arrival gave me new purpose and drove a bigger wedge between me and Chinese society. The obese, clumsy golden retriever was my agony aunt, hug-beneficiary, leftover-rice receptacle, handsome responsibility. He took me for walks every day to the market where we knocked things over and became a local nuisance. Lucy loved to third-wheel our evening walks across the golf course and say we were a "cool team", but between me and Qiubi, she was little more than a moon-faced onus.
I guess that's the general gist of how it went down. At the risk of encouraging you to go sign up right this second, I'll wrap it up here. My intrinsic politeness prevented me from showing any dissatisfaction for eight months until I got so sick of it I ditched them one morning in Hong Kong to catch the protests. By evening, my unlicensed one-day absence had enraged MJ so much that after screaming at me as if I'd tried to play piano, she recklessly booked me the next flight back to Chengdu. I was beside myself with glee. Tomorrow was supposed to be Disneyland.
Being assigned a new family in Beijing was beautiful. Things happen in Beijing, and people stare less. I only missed Qiubi and Chengdu hotpot ── not even that, because Beijing has every food. If I regret anything, apart from the whole experience, it's not having requested a change earlier. The new children were obedient, seen and not heard. Playtime not homework. The housemaid digged me. The granny didn't give a shit. I had a work schedule. <3
For those reading this who are considering au-pairing in China, I say go for it. If you like kids and are willing to learn Chinese, you can be a happy little bleeder. If, however, you think children are a liability to civilization, don't put yourself through it. That's pretty self-evident. I don't think my Chinese would be at where it's at today if I hadn't done the time, but jesus, was it crap.
