The apartment block where I live in China looks, for all the world, like one of those soviet era apartment blocks one used to see in those black and white movies from the fifties and sixties. From a distance, if you half close your eyes, it could easily pass for a haunted Transylvanian castle or a German bunker on the beaches of Normandy during World War Two. Of course, there’s no barbed wire, thank goodness, but the nearby walls are topped with lethal shards of broken glass set in concrete, and obviously designed to shred anyone attempting to climb over the wall.

The apartment block consists of eight two-bedroomed apartments and is accessed by a double flight of stone stairs at the back of the block. Each of the apartments has a small balcony at the back and iron cages secure each balcony. This rather gives the entire block a look reminiscent of Alcatraz on a cold winters evening. The only thing missing are searchlights and guard towers manned by machine-gun toting guards.

As you enter the apartment block you are struck with the unmistakable aroma of incense mixed with the smell of Chinese cooking. Much of the smell of cooking comes from our neighbours who overlook our apartment block. You will often see them as they wash their cooking utensils and throw their food scraps into our backyard. This I can live with but their unpleasant habit of hacking up large lumps of sputum and spitting them into our backyard will draw the sternest of stares from me. So far, my icy glare has had no effect on this disgusting habit.   

Each of the apartments in my block has a large, outer steel door for added security allowing the occupant to see who is at the door before opening it. Some are very plain and uninviting while others are tastefully decorated with lions and dragons. Behind the security door is a conventional wooden door leading into the apartment.

Outside many of the apartments are bright red doormats with ‘welcome’ on them. Written, naturally enough, in Chinese characters. Above the door you will very often see more Chinese characters inviting good fortune to visit the household. Very often, visitors will see small wire racks outside the apartment holding several pairs of slippers. Many Chinese do not like to wear their street shoes inside and prefer to change into slippers before entering their apartment carrying their shoes.

Unlike my Chinese neighbours, the entrance to my apartment is decorated with neither a welcome mat nor a sign invoking good fortune; rather the entrance to my apartment looks rather like one of those prison cells on Alcatraz. This is due, at least in part, to the many itinerant English teachers who have passed through this apartment, none of whom had the desire to make the place look inviting. Far better to look like a prison cell on Alcatraz than to give anyone the impression they are welcome.

As you enter the apartment, the first thing you will notice is the complete lack of anything comfortable. The floors are completely devoid of carpets and are made with gray, granite-grained tiles, which look about as inviting as the broken glass atop the walls surrounding the building.

The next thing the visitor will notice is the intricately carved wooden lounge suite, consisting of two single seats and one large three-seater lounge. Although how anyone could ‘lounge’ on this austere wooden monster is beyond my comprehension. There is not a shred of padding on this wooden monstrosity and I believe these chairs are specifically designed to encourage the visitor not to sit down and are every much a deterrent to would be visitors as the uninviting front door.

In the center of the room, surrounded by the aforementioned wooden lounge suite stands a rather bleak looking coffee table made from black marble. Apart from being ice cold to the touch and as aesthetic as a dead budgerigar, this so called coffee table also has the annoying habit of wobbling from side to side when one attempts to use it for any worthwhile purpose. Immediately above the alleged coffee table is a rather pathetic looking fan, which was probably white when it was first, installed but is now an abstract mixture of nicotine yellow and battleship gray.

The fan actually works which is rather surprising considering the number of electrical cords, which crisscross the apartment. There are also telephone cables which streak across the wall, wind their way around the front door, are diverted through the second bedroom and then, inexplicably, go into the main bedroom. I say, inexplicably because the telephone is actually in the living room.

Standing in the corner between the kitchen and the toilet is a rather strange looking object which looks rather like a cross between an escape pod from Star Trek and a medieval torture chamber. I was surprised to discover that it is actually a shower. It is made almost entirely of plastic and has two sliding doors allowing the user to enter the contraption.

Inside there is a small seat built into the walls of the shower that gives the user the option of sitting whilst showering. There is an overhead showerhead, which the user can detach, and use by hand if required. The controls are situated on the wall of this coffin like apparatus and the water is heated by gas when turned on. As yet, I have not been able to have a shower in the conventional sense, as the water is either scalding hot or freezing cold. I have to fill a bucket with warm water and ladle it over myself.

Designed to fit neatly in the corner of the room, this particular shower capsule – for want of a better word – is freestanding exposing all the plumbing and ugliness of the back of the capsule to public view. There are two metal umbilical cords which lead directly to a wall mounted gas heater under which are several large pipes which carry the water to the unit.

For reasons that escape me, the plumbers who plumbed this apartment thought it would be easier if the pipes were on the outside rather than inside the walls as normal. The toilet is a good example of this. A largish pipe snakes into the toilet from ceiling to floor and coming off the larger pipe is a smaller one on to which a water cock and water meter have been attached. This pipe then continues past a wash hand basin wedged in the corner and obviously designed for munchkin hands and on past the u-bend. It continues around the wall, past a freestanding tap and winds its way behind a large pipe, which carries the sewage of the apartments above. It then passes behind the western-style toilet, which looks rather like it was designed by a committee of aristocratic English ladies back in the roaring 1920’s, and out through a gaping hole which has been thoughtfully bashed directly through the wall.

Lighting is a single bulb that hangs impotently from the ceiling and the only power point is positioned inexplicably some two metres up one of the walls in the bathroom. I would have to say that the overall ambience of the toilet gives one some idea of what it must have been like to be incarcerated in one of the punishment cells at Lubianka prison in Siberia.

Of all the rooms in my apartment, the one that causes me the most consternation is the kitchen. If you wanted to punish a recalcitrant chef, the best way by far would be to force him to cook a meal in my kitchen. Measuring one and a half meters wide by two and a half meters long, my kitchen looks more like a disused public telephone box than it does a kitchen. There is a single, cold-water tap, which is constantly leaking. Under it is a stainless steel sink, which is totally unsecured and also leeks like a sieve.

Next to the sink there is a two-ringed gas stove which is fed by a large gas canister at the other end of the kitchen. There is no grill or oven with which to cook and the only working surface in the kitchen is made from an ugly black marble and about as big as a small ironing board. There are no cupboards; the only storage space being that just under the ironing board sized worktop. The only lighting in the kitchen, apart from a window seriously in need of a coat of paint, is a single light bulb, which hangs forlornly from the ceiling. To the left of the stove is a door that leads to the small balcony resembling a large parrot cage due to the iron bars that encase it. On the balcony is a large sink with a single cold-water tap. This, I believe constitutes the laundry. I was able to deduce this from the simple fact that standing next to the sink is a small washing machine with the rather cute brand name of “Little Swan” although what a little swan has to do with doing the laundry is beyond me.

The next room is hardly worth commenting on. I am referring to the spare room. This bleak room is totally devoid of furniture and overlooks Number 8 Middle School where I work. There is a large map of China taped to the wall. This map is of no real use to me as it’s all in Chinese and incomprehensible to me. Standing in the corner is a curtain rail that has been ripped off the wall just above the windows. This just adds to the bleakness of the room, which I avoid except, that is, when I decide to iron a shirt.

Finally, we come to my bedroom. My inner sanctum, so to speak. The first thing you will notice is a rather large wooden double bed that is obviously far too big for the room. On the bed is a mattress, which, take it from me, is slightly more comfortable than your average concrete block. It would appear the Chinese have a preference to sleeping on hard mattresses and must regard westerners as nothing but big softies. On the double bed is my beloved mosquito net. I say beloved because I really don’t know how I’d survive without it. Before I got it I had this fear of being discovered one morning lying dead on my concrete slab with every drop of my blood sucked from my limp and anemic body by those winged insects from hell called mosquitoes. I shudder at the mere mention of the name.

In the corner of my room is a desk upon which is a rather aging computer. I say computer but it’s not really a computer. It’s a cunning device planted, no doubt, by those who hate me, with the sole purpose of driving me insane thereby forcing me to hurl myself out my window in a fit of utter frustration. Each day I sit in front of the alleged computer shouting profanities and using language that would make an armed African mercenary blush.

Next to my desk is my television and alleged DVD player. Here too is a device guaranteed to upset me on a regular basis. Having no English language stations to watch on the television, I am obliged to watch DVD’s that are of suspect quality. Press the “No Subtitles” button on the DVD remote doesn’t guarantee no subtitles anymore than clicking on the “Windows Explorer” button on my computer will guarantee getting on the Internet. Here too is another source of frustration for me. Putting a DVD into the player and pressing play does not guarantee you will see the movie any more than turning on the computer will guarantee that it will work without constantly freezing or simply shutting itself down on a whim. I’m convinced that the DVD is in league with the computer. Why else would it show Tom Hanks storming the beaches of Normandy, yelling in fluent Chinese when I specifically asked for the dialogue to be in English. Why, when I say no subtitles are required, are they all in Korean? 

And there we have it; a quick tour of my humble apartment; my own private space where I can escape the hustle and bustle of over one billion Chinese just outside my window. And, you take my word for it, be it ever so humble, spartan or poorly designed, there’s no place like home.