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The gym in the foreign teachers’ residence here at Shengda, which is conveniently located beneath my apartment so that I can hear the music the other teachers like to listen to while lifting weights, has had a leak in the ceiling for the past few months.  Finally, a couple weeks ago, the plumbers came to attempt to fix it.  Their solution was to take a plunger to the drain in my shower.  Now, to be fair, I appreciate the effort, as it did result in a faster-draining shower for me.

It did not, however, fix the leak.   And a large dark spot has been growing on the floor tiles of this level’s corridor since then.

Yesterday, the plumbers returned.  With a blowtorch.  One that resembled a rather large kerosene cannister spitting fire.  They took this rather disturbing device from apartment to apartment and applied the flames to the kitchen pipes of every second-floor unit and occasionally left it, lit and unattended, in the hallway while checking pipes that had already received the treatment.  Indeed, the plumbers kept their potential explosive lit as they traveled up and down the stairs.

Given that the plumbers didn’t lift up the floor tiles to find the source of the water damage there, I suspect that their repairs have not solved the problem.  I’m hoping that their next attempt involves something with a slightly lower risk of setting the building on fire.

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