I figured out today why China will explode; if I don’t explode first. I’ve recently moved to a nice, freshly renovated apartment surrounded by well-manicured gardens and a (partially occluded) view of JinJi Lake. One of the issues involved in newly decorated apartments in China is that there is a shake-down period due to the newly completely construction work: apartments in China come as empty cement husks that need everything installed by independent contractors from electricals through plumbing through gas connections; after which comes the incessant grinding of concrete walls and the noxious gluing of tiles to make it all inhabitable.

I’ve had to have the gas connections looked at twice already. The first fellow, from contract management company that oversaw the renovation, wiped wet soap bubbles over the pipes coming from the gas junction box installed over the kitchen sink, and dabbed at the connections under the sink as well. Though he too smelled the heavy odor of gas whenever we turned on the kitchen’s hot water tap, he could not find from where the leak was coming.

I asked him, “don’t you have a meter to tell you where the gas is leaking?” He answered no.

Then he hit on an idea, “Close the kitchen windows, but keep one slightly ajar; the gas is coming from the vent placed just outside the kitchen window. The wind is forcing the exhaust into your window.”

The windows were already closed. “But I smell the gas even when the windows are closed. I said, tight-lipped. “See, you can smell the gas now when I turn on the hot water tap,” which I did.

Undaunted, he said, “Then open the window just a little more so you can get some air.” I felt as though I was going to ignite the gas-laden air with my rising temper at any moment.

After the contractor left the apartment I sent a text to the real estate agent indicating the fellow who had come over was useless. I felt the situation was serious enough – watering eyes, scratchy throat, a bit of dizziness – to warrant a more thorough evaluation of the situation. The agent arranged for someone from the gas company to come over.

The technician from the gas company was a plump, jovial man who insisted on keeping the windows open while I ran the hot water tap. He denied smelling any gas, the cloud of which had forced me away the sink. Wordlessly, he ran the telescoped neck of his gas meter along the pipes above the sink and under the sink.  At least, I considered, he was a bit more hi-tech than the contractor. Like a geiger counter, the meter irked loudly when he met a joint under the sink.

Surprisingly, he came to the same conclusion as the contractor: “the problem is from the vent outside the window; keep the window slightly open and slightly closed so you can get some air into the kitchen and reduce the amount of gas seeping into the kitchen.” And then he added, thoughtfully, “And keep the kitchen door open to mix the air.”

“But that doesn’t solve the problem,” I said through clenched teeth. “And I close the kitchen door to keep the gas smell out of the living area!

“Look,” I explained in staccato, “this stuff can be dangerous. I want to be able to wake up in the morning without having been gassed in my sleep; and I sure don’t want to explode while frying an egg. Now how do we fix this problem? Because there is a problem: I’ve never smelled gas like this in any place I’ve ever lived, including these years in China. Get some contractors to do something with the vent outside? repair the box?”

“Well, the box is actually a good brand – Japanese. We’ve even got that brand at the gas company.” So? I thought to myself. I guess I was supposed to bow down to their consumer savvy – or to Japanese brands without faults, I supposed. I looked steadily at him for some intelligent response. “But you may want to contact the manufacturer to make sure the seals are alright.”

Now we’re cooking with gas! I considered. We’re finally getting somewhere with this interrogation. I relaxed my posture a bit, uncrossed my rigid arms.

“But don’t tell the landlord I suggested this,” he said hurriedly. I’m not supposed to give advise.”

And therein lays the rub, it suddenly dawned on me as I ushered the technician out of my new home. We live in temporary times here in China, in which the impermanence of things is presumed, and quality a minor consideration as long as no one gets hurt. And as long as there are no headline-grabbing casualties, accountability is minor inconvenience.

Very seldom is a society’s development linear, smooth, gradual. China is no different. Indeed, it’s history of the dramatic and the incendiary is one of the reasons I came to China in the first place. And so we have societies – including China’s – developing through disruptive – even explosive, at times – events: a collusion and coincidence of arrogance, self-interest and lack of accountability of individuals, all dressed up as Culture.

But don’t tell anyone I ever said that. I’ll deny it all.