Recycled Condoms

Ant Farm acknowledges that this news is a bit dated, but given that this blog wasn’t in existence at the time this recycled condom story first “broke”, it’s still topical here. My justification for broaching this sticky subject is that here at the Farm we don’t cease flagella-ting China for its stupidity, and just because it happened 9 months ago doesn’t mean that it or something just like it is not still happening, or could happen tomorrow, because this is exactly the kind of rubbish that happens in China - used condoms get recycled and used again for things like women’s hair ties.

This matter first appeared in the venerable pages of the China Daily on 2007-11-13. http://www.chinadaily.com.cn/china/2007-11/13/content_6251535.htm. The international communities response was a resounding, “ewwwww." However, one young Chinese fellow gushed in a paroxysm of shame on the paper’s blog, “As a fellow countryman I feel really sad while reading negative reports on Chinese products. And I feel worse when the report is exaggerated by China's own media and is quoted by others. I hope this news report can be corrected immediately, though the damage is already done.”

Yes, indeed, it is. And his doubts expressed within this response, not quoted here, regarding the factualness of this story came prematurely because Ant Farm, in an effort to get a grip on this meaty piece dispatched our ace roving reporter, Jimmy Milk, who peeled off the cover of this story to get more sensation.

Traveling all the way from Beijing to the bazaars of Dongguan, Guandong, Milk poured through the stalls until he came upon an old woman selling dusty hair accessories and discovered that she indeed had the contraband rubber bands, and with the promise that he would buy the entire contents of her tray for 200 rmb she revealed to him what had to that point been strictly proprietary information; details of her supplier, including a factory address. Milk gathered the rubber bands into a puddle and carefully deposited them into a plastic bag, and with the address set off to find the factory, determined to discharge his duties as the Ant Farm’s only reporter currently working in China behind the scenes. He filed this report.

I lubed auntie’s palm with a couple Smirking Maos and she handed me a slip with a number on it. I made sure to keep it away from the rubber bands. I asked her one last time if she read the New York Times and if she realized the extent of the international scrutiny she was under, but again she said no. I sniffed that I’d be back, but with a TV camera the next time. She just scratched herself. I found a taxi driver nearby and pulled him away from a game of “Beat the Landlord” in the gutter with a group of unemployed, migrant villagers and gave him the address. As he settled in behind the wheel, casually pocketing their money, he glanced at the scrap, knowingly nodded and brayed a little “hmmph, Jade Tower Karaoke Palace”. I asked him what he knew about the place and he told me, “this is hot action joint for local rich kids and big party businessman. Also, have condom factory in basement”. I knew I was onto something. We drove on in silence toward the edge of town, me busy behind a cigarette, him the wheel. I sat in the back understanding how Mao must have felt on his way into Tianjin.

After several minutes of careful, vulturine circling we finally reached the destination. I paid him off the meter, the only way he’d take any foreigner anywhere, for the scabrous price of a hundred yuan. He sped off leaving me to find my balance in the middle of nowhere. I shot a rubber band at him. As I glanced around the immediate street I noticed there wasn’t a soul in sight. “What hit this place?” I thought, but then bore in mind that 90 percent of China looked this bad, or worse. And then before me, looming 5 stories high, was the newly built Jade Tower Karaoke Palace- a kitsch pagoda façade done in gold leaf with something sinisterly phallic about it, and a couple of gruesome looking temple dogs eternally yapping at the entrance. I made note of the fact that it was the only building in the area that had been built in the last decade or three. The rest of the area looked like someone had poured concrete and tar down an incline and gamely called it a street, the buildings looking shot up like the location of where a fire fight between rival Red Guard factions had gone down, but nobody had found the time to patch it up in the forty years since. Only the nearby karaoke palace held out the promise of “modern China”. As I glanced further up its walls I noticed an odd bonnet-like structure, very phallic looking, with a dimple at the very top capping it off, but thought, “nah, couldn’t be”. Things were getting more surreal by the second.

Preparing myself to play the “aggressive reporter” role, I took one last drag off my smoke and headed toward the door, ready to pull off some serious ambush journalism that would make my hero, Geraldo Rivera, proud. I strode up the red carpet leading in, past the temple dogs and through two big red columns that somehow resembled oversized dildos, but stopped just short of being obvious. The mirrored glass doors bedecked with a Santa Claus year-round were locked. It was then that I became aware of a thick, black resinous cloud of smoke emanating from behind the building. Having no choice but to cradle my head between my forearms I rushed through the nightmarish sea of smoke that stretched for half a block, rounded the corner of the building and burst up the shipping dock steps and into the factory in the back of the “Palace”, panting madly and covered in soot. Above the dock was a sign that read, “Guangzhou Research Institute for the Utilization of Unreusable Resources”. To my amazement, hanging everywhere, were rack upon rack of dripping condoms for as far as the eye could see, or my name isn’t Jimmy Milk. There in the middle was a huge vulcanizing vat toxically blasting away. Along the walls was a mountain of boxes that read “Ji Zee Rubber Bands”, and others that read “Princess Snowy Mountain Hair Ties”.

Out of nowhere, an old man appeared. Taking the offensive, I blurted out my standard “I’m with the New York Times, here to do stories about China during the Games”. In his arms was a waste basket emblazoned with the name of the Palace on it, and as I stepped toward him I looked into it and saw it was half-full of the “emperor’s socks”, and that the emperor had trodden through many a Jade Gate that day. He looked like the Monkey King that had just stolen the Peach of Immortality, but been caught. He had the most angelic simper on his face that I’ve ever seen. It was simply celestial.

My job was easy now. I asked him his name. He replied, “my precious family name is Whang, but everyone just calls me Old Whang. I am the chief janitor upstairs”. I asked him where the rest of the workers were. He said, “I think they just finally quit”. I asked Old Whang if he knew what the Guangzhou Research Institute for the Utilization of Unreusable Resources was up to, and what it’s connection to the Jade Tower Karaoke Palace was. He said he didn’t, but he could guess as he finally put down the wastebasket. He looked toward the vulcanizer, then the boxes of rubber bands and hair ties. And then he looked at me and said, “things are bad here. Workers pass out from exhaustion, putting in 15-hour days and 13 in the slow season. These workers are making only 28 Yuan per day and receive only 3.9 Yuan per hour for overtime -- well below the legal minimum. No insurance, no pensions, no maternity leave, no marital leave and no leave to bury family members. Pregnant women who cannot keep up with the pace are forced to take time off -- unpaid. Not to mention that there are no safety precautions for any of the workers. And they haven’t been paid in half a year”. A tear twinkled in the corner of his eye.

Just then a shiny, new black BMW sedan drove up. It was the big man. Out he stepped in a cheap suit, the Son of Heaven, descendant and representative of Heaven on Earth, holder of absolute power over all matters, great and small, charged with a divine and predestined mandate to rule. Angrily, the sole and supreme overlord of the entire civilized world came up the steps toward me, along with two scrawny, little genetic mishaps who were his lieutenants. He shouted, “who are you? What are you doing here? Are you the reason everybody think they can quit? Answer me!, foreign devil!”. I looked at Old Whang, gave him a wink, and just clocked the bastard. His lieutenants scattered like mice. I gave Old Whang about 500 rmb and told him to split.

Making my way swiftly back to the main street, a cab came fortuitously that moment and I hopped in. “The airport”, I said. I lit up and thought, “this brand of cigarettes that Mao smoked really suck”.

Jimmy Milk is the bastard son of the missionary, John Birch, O.S.S. His Chinese mother died giving birth to him, and his father who was killed by PLA soldiers at the end of WWII never knew of the result of his indiscretion. Milk was taken by his grandmother to Inner Mongolia, where she left him to die in the wilderness. He was, however, raised by wolves. In time, the ageless Milk would travel through every province of China, learn each of its dialect perfectly, and with his lupine survival skills, make it through every political and economic upheaval that China could throw at him. Milk is also a foremost authority on the World Communist Conspiracy. Don't get him started. He now proudly reports for us. Thank you, Jimmy.