Red, White and Blue in China – Musings by a Yankee in the PRC

Writing My First Book

2010-05-30T14:25:00.006+08:00

Writing a novel was like losing my virginity. I spent a large part of my life hoping I would do it, made a few false starts, and when I finally did it I realized it really wasn’t that difficult; and now I can’t wait to do it again. I will not extend the metaphor to actually publishing a book and getting paid for it; that would be creepy. My point is, if you’ve ever wanted to write a novel, go ahead and do it.

I am an unpublished author, so I’m hardly qualified to give much advice on writing a book. However, I think I have a few things to share, because unlike a lot of people who only talk about writing a book I actually did it; and I learned a few things along the way.

In my opinion there are three components to a novel – story, message and language. These things are fairly straightforward. The story is what happens in the book, e.g. man loses love of his life when he’s young because he’s poor, then sets out to become rich and claim his love, he succeeds but because of fate it all ends tragically. The message is the lesson or moral of the story, or maybe perfectly portraying a place and time for posterity, e.g. be careful of what you wish for, money can’t buy happiness, life is cruel, the ‘Roaring Twenties’, etc. The interesting thing about the message is that it can be left for the reader to determine regardless of what the author intends. Language is the actual words, sentences, paragraphs, and imagery the author employs. Great books, or dare I say ‘classics’, do all three very well, or ever just one or two of these things magnificently and do the other one or two well.

My book is called The Turtle Eggs, and it can be downloaded here from Scribd for free. I am working on finding an agent and a publisher, so if you enjoy the book please pass it along to your friends; and if you are in the publishing industry please offer me a big fat advance and 3-book deal! Here’s a description of the book.

They are the turtle eggs, thieves who stole vast fortunes from China’s booming Wild West economy and found refuge in the United States. Sean Lockhart, a black sheep from one of America’s most prominent families, a China hand, a businessman, and reluctant spy, is charged by two governments to help bring the Turtle Eggs to justice. Greed, betrayal and vengeance unfold from New York to Beijing and the steppes of Mongolia as Lockhart chases blood and treasure to right a terrible wrong.

I didn’t set out to write the great American (or Chinese) novel, I set my sights a lot lower. For me it was all about finally ‘doing it’. To simplify things a bit, I picked a genre and stuck to it, because by doing that you pretty much determine what kind of book you will write. Sure, I’d love to be able to write The Great Gatsby, but I wanted to start a project I could actually finish and be satisfied with. I was realistic enough not to swing for the fences my first time out.

I chose the ‘thriller’ genre, because that’s the kind of books I love to read and movies/TV shows I love to watch. After 30 years of books, TV shows and movies; from Johnny Quest to the Bourne series, I internalized the genre’s form from osmosis. If you want to be a good writer, then you must be a great reader. Study books, films and TV shows in the genre. If you want to write a spy novel (usually a sub-genre of a thriller) then you sure as hell better know what kind of car 007 drove and what kind of gun her carried – more often than not an Aston-Martin and a Walther PPK.

Novels that fit neatly into a genre are almost always all about telling a story. The language needs to be just good enough to carry the story and the message is frequently secondary. In general, thrillers are fast moving, so they use punchy language, and usually the message or moral of the story is ‘good triumphs over evil’.

So when I set out to write a thriller I concentrated on the story; I wanted to write a ‘ripping good yarn’ or a ‘romp’. I crafted a storyline; i.e. what happens first, second, third… until ‘The End’. This is the most important step, if you have ever told a story in your life, then you know it has a beginning, middle and end. If you are not too familiar with this and need to know more, I suggest you study the story arc and know it well. If you break from this format, you might produce something interesting and exciting, but more likely you will write yourself into circles and confuse readers.

After you create your story line, populate your story with characters. These are the active people that actually do things in your story. I have no great wisdom to share about creating characters; in fact I probably have a lot to learn. But with a thriller it’s kind of obvious what kinds of characters need to be involved, the hero, the damsel in distress (or someone else who needs protection), the villain(s), and a whole bunch of supporting characters that either help or obstruct the hero and villain, i.e. sidekicks, mentors, allies, henchmen, etc. And of course, never forget to include a heroine, femme fatale, or tart for strictly prurient interest; thrillers should have some gratuitous sex as well as violence.

A thriller by definition should move as fast as possible; otherwise no one is thrilled. So when I wrote my book, I wrote short chapters and I tried to end each one with a hook to the next chapter so I cold create a ‘page turner’. If you need to study this technique I suggest you read Alexander Dumas’ The Three Musketeers; it’s a long adventure story originally published in serial form in a magazine. Dumas got paid by the word as his story was printed issue after issue; therefore he really need to keep is readers on the edge of their seats so they would ‘tune in’ for the next chapter. By the way, Dumas became extraordinary wealthy because he was great at doing this.

This reminds me, having a few good influences is important; we should all study from the masters. When creating the characters and the story my main inspirations were Magnum PI and Fletch because I wanted my protagonist to be a slacker and a wise ass. I then drew from a few authors for writing style, Dan Brown and John Grisham for fast-paced conspiracy stories, and Carl Hiaasen and Elmore Leonard for quirky characters, snazzy dialogue and gritty violence.

Of course, I was also inspired by living in China, which I is the backdrop of my story. Also, while my life in Beijing is not nearly as interesting as my protagonist’s, nor do I want it to be, I also drew a lot from my own life in order to personalize the main character and include a lot of small details that I hope add flavor to the story.

It took me about two years to write, 2008 was the busiest year of my professional life, but 2009 wasn’t - hurray for recession! During both years finding the time to write wasn’t hard because I truly enjoyed the process. I usually wrote in the mornings before work and the weekends. My writing sessions last anywhere between 30 minutes to 4 hours, and I usually edited what I wrote over the last day or two and before writing a couple of pages. I found it useful to keep of log of how much I wrote on a weekly basis and after several months I reached a target of about 30 pages a month.

Like blogging or my work as PR consultant, writing a novel was a regular exercise in stretching my imagination and playing with words while maintaining discipline of serving a final goal – completing the story. One of the most important lessons I learned was I got better at writing the more I did it; because of this the second half of the book was much better than the first. This lesson prompted me to rewrite huge parts of the first 150 pages.

It is important not to fall in love with your writing; this prevents much need editing from being accomplished. An important lesson I learned was how to take criticism on my work. This is a fine balance of throwing my ego out the window but also sticking to my guns when something was important to me. I am grateful for all the advice I got from friends and family that read the book, but I did not make every suggested change.

I think this is all I have to offer on the subject of novel writing. If you ever wanted to write a book I can’t recommend it enough. I do hope I get published and even get some money for my efforts; that really would be a dream come true. But no matter what, writing and finishing The Turtle Eggs was a rewarding experience just by itself and I will write another one.

Rawalpindi or Bust: Part II – There and Back Again

2010-05-19T14:59:00.008+08:00

If you have read Part I, you know after I survived the travails of floods, highway robbery, and Xinjiang public transport I was more than ready to jump on the Karakorum Highway and get the hell out of the PRC, if only for a brief respite. Before I made it to the boarder I stopped at Lake Karakul for a night to sleep in a yurt and to race ponies, very badly I might add, and had a fine time in a makeshift third-world alpine retreat. It was fairly smooth traveling into Pakistan; the only hiccup was having to rouse red-faced Chinese border officials from their afternoon baijiu-induced siesta to stamp our papers so we could be on our way. It was accomplished with my best diplomacy.

I’ll never forget entering Pakistan; it was one of the friendliest greetings I’ve ever received from a man with a machinegun. After our jeep drove for about an hour through the no-man’s land separating the Chinese and Pakistani border crossings we were stopped at a checkpoint by a uniformed pudgy fellow lazily holding an assault rifle, he spoke immaculate English. He looked at the Kiwis’ and Limeys’ passports and heartily welcomed them to the Islamic Republic of Pakistan with a big smile and a firm handshake. Then he came to the last passenger in the vehicle, a lone humble American. He looked at me, took my passport, thumbed through the pages thoughtfully and scanned my visa to enter Pakistan and frowned. Then he said, “No, no, no… I’m sorry my friend. But you cannot enter.” My eyes lit up, I did not have a return entry visa into China, there I was in the middle of the Khunjerab Pass and it seems I didn’t have papers to go forward or back. Fear must have galloped across my face, because the border guard began laughing mightily and tossed my passport back at me, then said “Just kidding my friend. Welcome to Pakistan!” I’m sure that joke never gets old.

After crossing the border and spending the night in a quaint guesthouse we made it a little further down the road to some town that’s name escapes me. We spent a few days there basking in the mountain grandeur. Sixteen years after the experience I don’t think I can do the scenery around Kasmir justice, but in truth, it is absolutely stunning. At about 4 miles above sea level at night the stars are so big it looks like you can reach up and touch them, and the moon glows so bright you can literally read by it. The mountains are like none I’ve ever seen before, they are far more imposing then their Himalayan neighbors; stone skyscrapers jutting straight from the earth and capped by jagged and menacing snowy peaks.

The fierceness of the land is in complete contrast to the hospitality and warmth of the people living there. I found the inhabitants of northern Pakistan to be unfailingly polite, soft spoken and quick to smile. Negotiating for gas money or a fare when hitchhiking or taking a taxi is a good example of how friendly the people are. It usually goes something like this:

The author (waving down a taxi): “Hi, I’d like to go to the market bazaar, how much?”
Driver (smiling and wobbling his head in contemplation): “You say my friend.”
The author: “OK, how about 100 rupees?”
Driver: “Oh no, no, no… I’m sorry. Try again.”
Author: “Ummmm, OK. How about 200 rupees?”
Driver (smiling): “I can not.”
The author (amused and frustrated): “300?”
Driver: Yes, my friend, get in!”

They’re no fools, they’ll get a decent price or their effort, but they are also charming enough to make you feel good about it. I find this to be in stark contrast to Chinese drivers, who might as well put a HAZMAT warning and a jolly roger on their vehicle door to fairly warn passengers about what to expect from them; as a rule they are stinking scoundrels.

Not only is the landscape amazing and the people friendly, but the food is pretty memorable too. Compared to Chinese food, Pakistani fare is very basic and nothing to brag about. I ate chicken jalfrezi whenever I could get it; in addition to that I ate mountains of chapatti and dal (flat bread and lentils). I remember two amazing things about eating in Pakistan; the first is the mangos. They are the sweetest most flavorful fruit I’ve ever enjoyed in my life; other fruit are literally and figuratively green with envy by their Epicurean perfection. The second thing is the tactile sensation of eating with your hands, dal and chappati are usually eaten communally out of a big bowl with the right hand (the left is used for various wipings and other dirty work). It’s hard to describe and should just be experienced, but for me there was something primal and innocent about eating on a daily basis with your hand and having the warm food drip down your fingers and forearm, it was a sensation so reminiscent of early childhood a flood of good feelings swelled inside me. I have not felt a similar joy from mealtimes since I wore a bib and pajamas with feet. What would Freud say?

It wasn’t all some kind of mountain paradise, the Kasmiri neighborhood is not Shangri-La, there were some inconveniences too. For example, on my birthday I think I got a nice dose of the crabs. I wish I could say it was from a romantic encounter, but in fact it was from nothing more than mere bed bugs at a hostel that will not get my business again. I write “I think” I got body lice because in fact it was never proven. A room full of us lay in our separate bunks, then one of us started scratching and swore his mattress was infested, and then another and another, until we all jumped out of bed and were scratching ourselves furiously swearing we were covered head to toe with the creepy crawlies. The next day we got ointment from a local drug store and spread it around from head to nether regions and felt better for it. None of us ever found the corpse of a single offending bed bug, and until this today I wonder if I suffered from a psychosomatic case of body lice.

As if infestation wasn’t enough, then there were the guns. Like most Americans I enjoy firearms, especially if I’ve been drinking. But there’s something altogether disconcerting about how commonplace they are in Pakistan. I’m not talking just about the Western badlands bordering Afghanistan where the Taliban and the remnants of al Qaeda have taken up residence, I mean every town and city in the country.

Here are three examples. On my way to Rawalpindi, my bus pulled over in a village for a rest stop, as soon I stepped off the bus I saw the sign for a gun store. Well of course I went and checked it out, it was very small but it had a good assortment of pistols, shotguns and Kalashnikov assault rifles. I walked in just in time to see a man buy an AK-47 and a few hundred rounds of ammunition. Cool, I do like to see people exercising their Second Amendment rights, no matter what country they are in. However, I was less pleased when I saw him get on my bus. In another incident I was relaxing on the roof of my hotel in Rawalpindi and catching some rays when I heard from the building next door the distinct sounds of a pistol with a silencer attached to it being fired and breaking glass. For all I knew it could have been a political assassination and as luck would have I would get caught up in it. I duck walked to the stairs and got the hell off the roof, later that day I mentioned it to the hotel proprietor and he assured me there was nothing to worry about. Apparently the owner of the townhouse next door was an army general and sometimes he took a little target practice in the backyard, but being a good neighbor he used a silencer so as not to disturb anyone too much. The last example was Pakistan’s Independence Day, celebrated every year on August 14. I thought I was enjoying fireworks, but then I saw the locals actually just like to fire their rifles in the air to celebrate life, liberty and the pursuit of firepower. This was especially worrying because I was watching this from a rooftop.

Since I’m taking inventory of all things distinctly Pakistani, and I’ve mentioned the people, the scenery, the food and the guns, I would be remiss if I didn’t also mention the hashish. Booze is hard to find in the Islamic Republic, however some excellent refined hemp products not so much. The hotel I stayed at in Rawalpindi put a sizeable chunk of powerful black hashish on your pillow every night like a mint. Drugs are illegal, and I can neither confirm nor deny the quality of the hash that was freely distributed in my hotel and readily available as I traveled in Pakistan. But everyone I knew who tried it really liked it, I’m sure it took the edge off being subjected to bed bugs and the ever-present automatic weapons, it probably also made the daily meal of dal and chapatti taste like a turkey dinner.

Once I arrived in Rawalpindi I thought I’d be there just long enough to pop over to the neighboring capital of Islamabad (the two cities are really one and the same disheveled megaplex) to visit the Chinese embassy and get my work visa so I could head back to Beijing and start my new career as a high school teacher. However, it didn’t work out so well. When I arrived at the embassy with all my paperwork conscientiously prepared by my minders at the school I was promptly informed that a week earlier a new regulation had been passed and I needed yet another piece of paper. When I left Beijing 30 days earlier I had all the necessary documents, however now I was one short. Despite all my protests and pleading, the embassy officials took no mercy on me and didn’t care that I had crossed diluvian Xinjiang, braved brigands and God-knows what else so that I could get my working papers and go back to Beijing and teach their nation’s children. They demanded I contact my school and get the necessary papers.

Let me summarize the situation for you. It’s August 1996, I’m in Rawalpindi and expected to call a high school in Beijing during the summer to find someone who knew who I was and understood what papers I needed and fax them to me. Also, I had four working days a week to accomplish this herculean task, because Friday in the Islamic Republic is a holiday. Basically, I was fucked. It took me roughly one month of explaining, cajoling, screaming, and pleading before everyone involved were found, made to understand the situation, and actually took action. I thought the floods were bad enough, but Chinese bureaucracy turned out to be a far more daunting and unnatural disaster.

I spent a month in Rawalpindi loafing; it was fantastic. I read a lot; I finished the entire Lord of the Rings trilogy in about four days. I also read the story of Led Zepplin The Hammer of the Gods. I don’t know why, but I always remember the books I read while traveling. I also went to the movies a few times a week. The best thing I saw was Bruce Campbell in Evil Dead III: Army of Darkness, to this day it remains one of my favorites, not only for its own merits but also because of the circumstances in which I saw it.

Two things stand out in my mind about going to the movies in Pakistan; the first is that it seems only men were allowed in the movie theater. I don’t know if there were theaters or show times only for women, or if sharia prohibited women from going to the theater, but every time I went it was me and a couple hundred men who acted like sex-starved teenagers. Whenever a beautiful woman came on screen a bevy of catcalls and whistles followed with hormone-charged glee. I was embarrassed for them, these were grown men. The other distinct memories I have are of two interesting people I met at the theater. The first was an Iranian who told me the US Army trained him to fly helicopters in the 70s and he later flew missions for the CIA after the fall of the Shah. He invited me to go back to his tent in a refugee camp on the outskirts of town; I politely declined, that seemed like pushing my luck. The other incredible character was a cross between the Artful Dodger and an urban version Mowgli from The Jungle Book. This prince of the street urchins couldn’t have been more than 14 years old, he was dressed in ragged cut off shorts with no shirt or shoes and filthy dreadlocks down passed his shoulders. The amusing little brat chain smoked while he kicked my ass in Street Fighter II a dozen games in a row, ragging me in Urdu the whole time. I remember having the distinct impression that judging by how the other beggar children differed to him I was in the presence of their gang leader and he wasn’t someone to be taken lightly; there was something noble about him.

Once I got my paperwork it was time to head back home to Beijing. I was already a week late for my job so I was in a damn hurry. I very well might have set a world record for traveling between Rawalpindi to Beijing overland on public transportation, I made it in roughly five days. I only slept one night in a hotel and that was because I got to the border late and I had to wait for it to open in the morning, the remaining nights were spent on a couple of buses and the train.

While on a bus somewhere in the vicinity of Kashmir I had a thought-provoking encounter with a fellow passenger. The bus was fairly empty and a young Pakistani man sitting across from me struck up a conversation. He asked me where I was going, I explained I had a job waiting for me in Beijing, we discussed China for a while and then I inquired about his destination and plans. He told me he was a ’freedom fighter’ and was coming off the line, so to speak, from Kashmir. Well, it’s not everyday you meet someone who’s job description is ‘freedom fighter’ or ‘jihadi’. This was five years before 9/11, before al Qaeda was a household name in American and before there was a ‘War on Terror’. We didn’t discuss his political or religious beliefs, but he was a likable enough chap, seemingly honest and friendly. In short, I was a little wary but enjoyed his company nonetheless. He didn’t leave me with the impression that to him I represented ‘the Great Satan’, I probably didn’t. Kashmir, Afghanistan, Palestine, Iraq, Iran, etc. all have a lot less to do with each other than many TV-watching or newspaper-reading Americans will ever understand. At that point in time he was probably indifferent to America and to me as an American. I wonder what he thinks now.

Rawalpindi or Bust: Part I – On the Road to Kashgar

2010-05-07T07:08:00.008+08:00

In the summer of 1996 I experienced one of the great adventures of my life, so far. After studying one more semester of Chinese in Beijing, I graduated from my US university in absentia and secured a job as an English teacher at a prominent local high school. There was only one problem; I needed to leave the country to change my student visa to a work visa. After having many good times in Uighurville I really wanted to go to Xinjiang and visit the fabled oasis town of Kashgar, however I feared leaving the PRC for a visa run to Hong Kong would seriously cut into my small traveling budget. But someone told me if I needed a visa all I had to do was pop over to Pakistan from Xinjiang. Well, why not?

Little did I know that two months on the road through Xinjiang into Pakistan and back to Beijing would entail encounters with a natural disaster, a questionable case of personal infestation, a bureaucratic paper chase that would make Kafka’s head spin, a religious experience of sorts, and a humorous encounter with a militant Islamist. All of these things happened 14 years ago, but it seems like yesterday. It’s truly wondrous how short life is.

When I boarded the train from Beijing to Urumqi I was well prepared for a 3+ day ride across China deep into the Gobi desert over parts of the ancient Silk Road. Unfortunately, it took me over sixty days before I ever set foot in Urumqi, and that was when I was doing my best to travel 2,417 miles overland on public transportation in 5 days to make it back in time to start my new job. So the only part of Urumqi I saw was a shanzai Hard Rock Café, where I stopped to catch a meal before getting on the train. It was memorable, because as I sat eating my meal the track lighting over the restaurant’s extensive buffet exploded, dropping shards of colored glass into the dishes below. To my horror, the staff then promptly used their fingers to pick out the glass and continued to serve the food.

After two days of hard-sleeper (think of a cattle car with bunk beds) I woke up one morning and the train wasn’t moving. OK, I think, no big deal, we made a stop. So I rolled over and went back to sleep. I woke up again an hour later and we still weren’t moving, this seemed strange. Then I found out we were in Lanzhou and the train wasn’t going any further; massive floods occurred over night and washed away roads, bridges, train tracks, phone lines and in some cases complete villages. It seems an act of God was about to severely put the kibosh on my vacation.

As I exited the train the first thing I saw was a large crowd of confused and irritated passengers milling about outside the train station. The railway personnel announced that refunds for the uncovered distance from Lanzhou to Urumqi would be promptly distributed to all ticked passengers, but of course there was a hitch. Only one window was open at the ticket office where the several hundred (maybe more than a thousand) passengers could go to get their refunds.

So, picture mid-morning in a desert city in July and several hundred unhappy Chinese asked to line up outside and collect their money — a riot was brewing. Pushing, shoving, cursing and spitting ensued with peasant enthusiasm; and that was just the women and children. Then I witnessed a lesson in Chinese crowd control I will never forget. Two uniformed officers stood at the front of the window, turned on shock clubs, then proceed to walk in a tight straight line; passengers got inline, out of line, or shocked. I saw one of the cops chase an elderly woman and threaten to zap her, it seemed to be in good fun though, she was laughing.

Well, so much for taking the train. Although I wanted to stay and witness the incredible scene that was unfolding at the train station, I decided to forfeit the 200 kuai I had coming to me and hop a sleeper bus to Kashgar; good riddance Lanzhou. For those Americans who have never taken a sleeper bus through the boondocks of China, let me draw you a picture. Imagine the Joad family on a Greyhound bus filled with two levels of chez lounges bolted to the floor; sometimes there are chickens on the bus, occasionally there are other bewildered foreigners, but there’s always some queasy passenger puking out the window. Once, on the way to Xishuangbana, I had a window seat, and the puking passenger sat next to me and leaned across my lap out the window to vomit steadily for several hours.

After about 20 hours of a blessedly uneventful ride through Gansu and into Xinjiang I woke in the morning and found that the bus was not moving. Oh no, not again I thought. Yep, sure enough, all the roads were out, and we couldn’t go any further. I found this out by having a remarkable conversation with the bus driver on the side of the road:

The author: So, what’s up? Why have we stopped in the middle of nowhere?
Bus driver: There’s a flood, roads are out, and we can’t get through.
The author: Yeah, I hear the flood’s a disaster; my train couldn’t get through to Urumqi from Beijing, that’s why I got on the bus back in Lanzhou.
Bus driver:(incredulous) What? You knew about the floods?
The author: Uhh… yeah.
Bus driver: You mean you knew that the roads, bridges and railroad were washed out by the floods and you didn’t tell us?
The author: Uhhh… I figure you knew about the flood. You mean you didn’t know, no one told you? Don’t you have phones or radios?

The bus driver walked off in frustration, he’d had enough of the know-it-all foreigner.

Actually, it wasn’t all bad. As luck would have it the bus had stopped at Turpan, a picturesque oasis city famed for its grapes, Emin Minaret, and the nearby Flaming Mountains. If you are ever going to be half stranded in Xinjiang and surrounded by a flood stricken disaster zone you could do a lot worse. I settled in for about a week or so, took in the sites and enjoyed myself.

I ended up meeting groups of other travelers, and when Turpan got a little old and Kashgar beckoned us, we planned our escape. Well, easier said than done. In our first attempt, a group of about 15 travelers rented a bus and headed for the aptly named city of Toksun (read ‘Toxin’) where we heard people were able to forge the flooded river, however we didn’t get very far. Half way there traffic literally got bogged down in the remains of a flooded village. Our merry little band of travelers spent half a day surveying wreckage of a flash flood hitting a village of mostly wooden structures. I recall the townsfolk taking it pretty well, the parents and grandparents sat around taking it all in and waiting for relief to arrive while the kids played joyously in the sandy mud. But after hearing more water was on its way after severe rains north of our location, our bus driver decided to make a hasty retreat out of town.

We tried again two days later, and this time we made it to Toksun, but not after ditching the bus in impassable traffic a few kilometers from the river and hitching rides on donkey carts – the preferred mode of transportation in many parts of Xinjiang. When we reached the river our jaws dropped. Some brave souls were crossing a roughly one hundred yard chest-high torrent while thousands of onlookers stood along the banks. The remains of the highway bridge could be seen half-sunken upriver.

Not to be daunted, we fearlessly plunged into the river and carried our backpacks over our heads. Ok, I was daunted, fearful and just plain scared shitless, but if about half of the people in the bus I came in were doing it, so would I. I almost lost my footing on a few occasions and visions of floating far downstream raced through my head, but I made it to the other side bathed in putrid river water, cursing my stupidity and happy to be on the other side.

Yet again we were lucky! Just as we climbed up the bank of the river a sleeper bus for Kashgar was preparing to leave, and it had several seats available. I, two Kiwi geologists, and three Brits piled into the bus; nothing could stop us now, and we’d be in Kashgar in little over a day. Several celebratory beers were drunk, and then I took a nap.

When I woke up the bus wasn’t moving. We had made it about five hours out of Toksun and into the mountains before being halted by a rockslide that was at least two stories high. One of us climbed the rockslide, peered over and saw cars there. So our band of intrepid Anglo-Saxon explorers said ‘fuck it’ and we climbed the rockslide determined to hitch a ride west. This was done over vehement protests by the bus driver who swore it wasn’t safe. “What if someone came down from the hills and robbed you?” We laughed off the warning about brigands, surely everything would be alright. No matter what, we were not going back to Toksun and the river.

When we got over the rockslide we immediately asked anyone with a car if they would give us a ride to Korla, a large town about halfway to Kashgar, or at least just a place to pick up a bus. Unfortunately no one was all that interested in giving six strange foreigners a ride. It got later, then it started to get dark, and the prospect of spending the night in the mountains without a sleeping bag or tent started to fill our thoughts. We all wondered if we should have listened to the bus driver’s ominous warnings.

Thirty minutes later a big flat bed truck came by and agreed to take us to a bus stop about an hour away, the driver and his buddy did us this kind favor for the exorbitant fee of 500 kuai. This is when I learned if you depend on the kindness of strangers you also have to factor in their greed.

We were dropped off at a crappy little town in some God forsaken part of Xinjiang, and we were thrilled to be there. After some nourishing noodles and beer we began thumbing on the side of road, eventually a bus to Korla picked us up, however there were no empty seats available, we would have to stand or sit in the aisle for eight hours. I struck up a conversation with a few of the locals, a couple of guys sharing a large bottle or baijiu, and I got stinking drunk and passed out on the floor of the bus. Given the situation, it seemed the smartest thing to do.

Have you ever woken up in the middle of the Gobi without any water after a night of drinking Chinese grain alcohol? The hangover was unmerciful. Worse yet; our bus wasn’t moving. We had hit another flooded river. Passengers from hundreds of cars on both sides of a small shallow river threw large rocks into the river to create a passable place to cross. It took all morning, but eventually, very slowly, cars started to cross the river. Yet another obstacle met and overcome and done in true socialist style too, with people patiently moving the earth with their bare hands in collective fashion to accomplish a shared goal; Mao would have been proud.

We made it to Korla; after a rockslide, brigands, and two flooded rivers we were halfway to Kashgar. The only memorable thing about Korla were the goat fat sandwiches I ate. It was the only thing available besides noodles and I was sick of noodles. My traveling companions were impressed by my intestinal fortitude. It is true; my small intestine is the thing legends are made of.

We then found a bus to Kashgar, and this was possibly the worst bus ride of my life. The bus was not a sleeper bus, nor a comfortable tourister, it was basically just like a yellow school bus – padded benches, kidney jarring shocks and noisy air breaks. I hadn’t really slept in two days, I reeked of river water and baijiu, and my last meal was goat fat on unleavened bread and a warm Coke. Now I had 30 hours on an uncomfortable bus to look forward to. Frequently I nodded off sitting upright and every time we hit a pothole my head crashed against the window or medal back of the seat in front of me. We hit a lot of potholes.

I remember that about ten hours into the ride I considered shocking myself unconscious with the electric shock club I purchased from one of my drinking buddies the night before (after seeing how effective they were in Lanzhou I had to have one). I thought about it for hours, but I just couldn’t come to terms with dying from a self-induced cardiac arrest on a shitty bus in the middle of the Gobi Desert; I’m better than that, right?

I think we were as happy as any travelers on the Silk Road ever were to reach Kashgar. We all promptly showered and slept for hours. Over the next week, I explored the amazing town, especially the incredible Sunday bazaar with a medieval atmosphere in the ‘Old City’. After spend many long tortuous days trying to get there the city lived up to the dream. Like the market surrounding the Jokhang Temple in Lhasa, the open air Kashgar market had an ageless, mythical quality. An amazing assortment of hats and daggers, silk and wool clothes, as well as an abundance of raisins, melons and other fresh produce were negotiated over by hawkers and buyers in traditional Uigher, Tajik, Uzbeck, Kazak and Kygher clothing, in addition to plenty of faded blue Mao suits. I remember after buying several hats and a massive dagger I haggled for an hour with a vendor for a set of Soviet night-vision goggles. But then I figured crossing into Pakistan armed to the teeth and carrying night-fighting equipment might not be a good idea.

I have read reports, like this and this and this, that sadly Kashgar is becoming a shadow of its former self, the ‘Old City’ is being bulldozed over and replaced with tacky high rises and that all this is being done in the hallowed name of ‘progress’ or ‘harmony’ or ‘safety’... whatever. The argument that the traditional wood and brick structures would not survive an earthquake is dubious, they have stood for hundreds of years, a much better record than many buildings built by Chinese construction crews in recent years. In truth, it’s simply being done to help ‘Sinofy’ an ethic Uighur city. I understand the Party’s urge to pacify its frontier but I won’t defend their heavy handed policies - better results could be achieved with a far more enlightened approach.

I’m sure in the American Old West; places like Deadwood, Carson City, Tombstone, Sioux Falls, Dodge City, etc. were once also thriving melting pots of indigenous peoples and the prolific Americans marching westward. Those were special places at an incredible time in US history, but they have largely been homogenized by a single modern American culture. If the Party has its way, the same thing will happen in China, from the buildings to the people inside them, one Chinese city will look pretty much the same as the next. Culturally, China will be poorer for it. It’s tragic, and I’m glad to have seen the real Kashgar before it’s gone.

Please stay tuned for Part II of Rawalpindi or Bust as the author makes it across the Karakorum Highway only to be trapped in Pakistan by a paperwork snafu and unable to secure a visa to return to Beijing. The tall tale involves encounters with guns, drugs, body lice and an assortment of lively characters.

For more blogging on Xinjiang, I suggest you visit Far West China.

Californian Town Fears Yellow Peril

2010-04-25T18:06:00.011+08:00

Last week, C. Custer from China Geeks put the spotlight on xenophobic rants by Chinese online in response to a video of a moronic, drunken foreigner and his run in with the police. The blog posting was an excellent examination of under currents of anti-foreign sentiment in Chinese society. Many of us that read the post commented that the similar phenomenon would happen in the United States. The Associate Press then went and reported on a nearly similar example of xenophobia in the California town of Hacienda Heights.

At a recent school-board meeting, a group of mostly white town residents vehemently opposed a Chinese government program (Confucius Classroom grants) to fund a local middle-school language class. Here are some illustrative quotes from the small minds at work:

"These children have young brains that are very malleable and they can be indoctrinated with things that America would not like,” said an opponent to the school board members who approved the program.

"China already owns and changed most of the shopping centers in Hacienda Heights… Do we really want them to change our kids' minds, too?" wrote a resident to the San Gabriel Valley Tribune.

According to the AP report, some town residents feel they need to protect the community's youth from communist propaganda that could be hidden in textbook passages unreadable to non-Chinese speakers. One resident explicitly took issue with the program’s association with Confucius; "When you Google it, it comes up as a religion… It just seems wrong on so many levels."

Opponents attending school board meetings brought signs bearing such slogans as "America, Not Confucius".

The city planned to accept an offer to have the Chinese government place a teaching assistant in the school and pay his or her salary. In response, an editorial in the San Gabriel Valley Tribune called the plan "tantamount to asking Hugo Chavez to send his cadres to teach little American kids economics."

In the great tradition of American journalism, AP went out and sourced an academic wonk to weigh in on the issue. A University of Southern California public policy professor, Nicholas Cull, who reportedly ‘tracks China's efforts to shape its image abroad’ said, "I'm sure this will become a standard dispute… People in America are very suspicious of ideas from the outside."

So, apparently Ward & June Cleaver have decided to draw a line in the sand and fight the insidious dissemination of the PRC’s ‘soft power’. I wonder if they have ever heard of Voice of America and understand why it was created.

I’d also like to know if they have any appreciation for the fact there are now more English speakers in China than in the United States, and that they were taught by legions of under-qualified Americans (and other native-English speakers) who intentionally spread Western culture, including the ideas of liberal democracy and free market economics. I would also like to point out that many of these very same English teachers also did their very damn best to sleep with some of their female students.

Dear readers, I was an English teacher in China in the 90s, so I speak from experience. Was I spreading American ‘soft power’? I suppose I was.. but ‘soft’ isn’t the word I would use.

Oh, by the way, let’s not forget the untold number of religious zealots masquerading as teachers who are giving out Bibles, organizing underground churches, and generally engaging in activities the PRC government deem illegal.

Why do the Chinese tolerate this horde of barbarians who spread anti-Communism and corrupt the morals of their youth? I suppose it’s because they want to create a competitive 21st Century workforce and become a global super power. You know what? It’s working too.

Reading between the lines of the article, I suspect opposition to this particular PRC-funded language program is mostly about a town’s changing demographic, where the whites are no longer the majority and they are lashing out at perceived cultural and economic threats. Damn, isn’t globalization a bitch? You’d think after America worked really hard to win the Cold War the whole world would just giddyup, speak English, drink Coca-Cola and let white Americans run everything. Well, not hardly.

Waves of 'soft power' will crash into each other, but it doesn't necessitate a 'clash of civilizations'. Hopefully communities throughout the world can take the best and leave the rest behind. Isn't that what America is about?

From Austin City Limits to Beijing

2010-04-22T23:40:00.013+08:00

I’m a New Yorker, a Beijinger and a Texan, in that order. I had the great pleasure of living in Austin, Texas for 5 years and my life is much richer for it. Austin is an oasis of culture in the Lone Star state. It’s home to the Austin City Limits Music Festival and South By Southwest, two amazing cultural events that everyone should attend if they get a chance.

Austin bills itself as the ‘live music capital of the world’ and with good reason. The Austin Chronicle lists 792 venues for music, which is a staggering number of places to be able to go out and catch a show for a city of only 1.7 million. In comparison, Beijing Municipality would need to have about 10,000 venues to meet the same ratio. Keep in mind, that while the two cities’ populations are vastly different, their size is not, Beijing is 16,801.25 km2 and Austin 11,099.91 km2.

The reason I show you the numbers is for some perspective and so that you can believe me when I say you can pretty much move 10 minutes in any direction in Austin and run across some good live music. Of course ‘good music’ is in the ear of the beholder; the city serves up a smorgasbord ranging from country/western to rock and jazz. If you are looking for rap, house, drum and base, classical, etc., go somewhere else.

Living in China I’m pretty much out of touch with the music scene back in the States. I try to keep up, but it’s hard. The fact that I’m not as young as I used to be might also be a factor, but I try really hard to ignore that. Anyway, if you live in China and are anything like me, you’re probably starved for good music—you can only shuffle your iPod so many times before your 10,000 favorite songs start to get really boring. So here’s 4 good suggestions of amazing musicians from Austin you’ve probably never heard of. All have found some national success in the Sates, but they haven’t made it big; however they remain institutions in Austin. If you like what you read below, run to your nearest media store or website to buy or download these artists.

Bob Schneider – An incredibly versatile musician, from hard driving punk & funk to straight rock and acoustic ballads, Bob Schneider has created an impressive body of work. My advice is to listen to three of his albums before you make up your mind, each one is more different from the last. His early band, The Scabs, was known for its funky rhythms and raunchy lyrics, but Bob’s latest album, Lovely Creatures, is a schmaltzy guitar laden folksy affair. My favorite albums are Californian and Lonelyland.

The Asylum Street Spankers - The band almost defies description, but I’ll give it a try. Led by Wammo and Christina Marrs the Spankers create a crazy combination of blue grass, jazz, swing, Tin Pan Alley, rock and occasionally rap. Sometimes they are plugged in and sometimes they are completely acoustic; with yukalaylee and kazoo. While many of their songs are about drugs, sex and political protest, they also found the creative where with all to do a children’s album. The Spankers are hysterically funny and musically sublime.

James McMurtry – In the tradition of Townes Van Zandt, James McMurtry (son of famed novelist Larry McMurtry) strums, moans and blasts a lyrical fusion of country/western, blues, folk and rock. WARNING: If you are allergic to the slightest bit of twang stay away. However, if you like the occasional Johnny Cash or Willie Nelson song, or Neal Young or the aging and melancholy Bruce Springsteen, you’ll like James McMurtry. My favorite album is Where’d you Hide the Body

The Gourds – Although sometimes labeled ‘alternative country’ I think they are far more rock n’ roll, but with Zydeco mandolin, banjo and accordion. Their big claim to fame was a cover of Snoop Dogg’s Gin N’ Juice, a favorite that is often repeated on my iPod. If you are fan of the Grateful Dead, Phish, or Little Feet, the Gourds are for you.

This by all means is NOT an exhaustive list of the wonderful talent orbiting Austin’s musical galaxy. I left the city over five years ago to return to Beijing, I wonder what I’m missing…

P.S. Please write to me with suggestions of new or old music to check out, I am always looking for more.

Uneasy Rider: Why China Needs a Motorcycle Movie

2010-04-11T08:32:00.018+08:00

I got my first motorcycle in China, and because I didn’t have a driver’s license, insurance or registration for the bike; I achieved Badass Outlaw Biker-status immediately. Another childhood dream come true.

The bike was a Changjiang 750, or “sidecar”, or kuazi if you are a member of the cult. Someday I’ll write another post about the bloody knuckle joy of owning one of these great motorcycles and the adventures I had driving all over the countryside surrounding Beijing. Today, however, I am musing about motorcycles, their relationship to man and the universe. I know, it’s been done to death, but now it’s my turn. It’s my blog and I’ll do what I want.

America has a great tradition of motorcycle stories and there’s a good reason for it. The motorcycle is essentially a metaphor for a modern horse and American mythology is a Western; its errant knights are cowboys. Motorcycles stories, as good mythology, help Americans define their relationships to themselves, others, society and the cosmos.

Here’s an incomplete chronological inventory of the motorcycle mythos in America:
• The Wild One – Marlon Brando (movie)
• Hell's Angels – Hunter S. Thomson (book)
• Born to Be Wild – Steppenwolf (song)
• Easy Rider – Dennis Hopper & Peter Fonda (movie)
• Zen & the Art of Motorcycle Maintenance – Robert Pirsig (book)
• Harley Davidson & the Marlboro Man – Mickey Rourke & Don Johnson (movie)
• Wanted Dead or Alive – Bon Jovi (song)
• Motorcycle Diaries (book & movie)
• The World’s Fastest Indian (movie) [thanks Jim for the recommendation]
• Wild Hogs (bad movie)

Look at what the motorcycle represents: freedom, individuality, speed, danger and strength. A man riding a motorcycle is not weak, enslaved, or a faceless member of the masses; he’s a hero (even if only to himself). The motorcycle serves as America’s vehicle of choice in its modern odysseys; reflecting the nature of its people, cultural changes, man’s relationship with technology, spiritual awakenings, and other important themes.

China needs a motorcycle movie. As the nation continues to wrestle with its identity in a post semi-colonial age traumatized by the loss of its traditional culture and the birth of a new society, it should take a good look in the mirror. A motorcycle movie could serve as an apolitical, romantic, modern fantasy to help China discuss, identify and celebrate its values.

I’d like to see a Chinese motorcycle movie. Imagine a couple of young Chinese on Changjiang 750s as they go “on the road” from Beijing to the farthest corners of the PRC to discover themselves and what it means to be Chinese. Although I’m partial to motorcycles and stories about them, China doesn’t have to take my advice. It’s up to the Chinese to create their own modern mythology. Fortunately, I like kungfu movies too.

Zhongguo Uber Alles

2010-03-23T21:29:00.009+08:00

Believe it or not, I don’t usually get to hangout with the Chinese Communist Party’s (CCP) chief ideologues and discuss Marxist-Leninism, Maoist ideals, or communist paradigms in the Twenty First Century. But I really want to. Sure, the big bucks are in pushing widgets, but buying hearts and minds is so much more fun.

By Chinese standards my communist credentials are not pure. However, when I lived in Texas I voiced the opinions that there should be shelters for the homeless, recycling is a good idea, and better access to healthcare would probably benefit America. I was promptly labeled a Pinko. So my dear comrades will have to meet me half way.

I say all of this because the National People’s Congress (NPC) and the even more exciting People’s Consultative Political Conference (CPPCC) earlier this month, followed by the US Congress passing a healthcare reform bill, has raised my fervor for socialism. By the way, I’m sure Glenn Beck could make a connection between the two Communist political meetings in Beijing and the Democrats passing the healthcare bill, but I’m just not as smart.

Word around the karaoke bars is that the leading Politburo candidates Xi Jinping and Li Keqiang are poised to take over the government from Hu Jintao and Wen Jiabao in 2012 and everyone is jockeying for position; I’d like to join the fray. Here’s how I can help. I know a thing or two about public relations, marketing and politics, and I think I could help the incoming leaders define their platform and inspire a new generation.

In the United States political slogans and the pithy ideas they represent are great for election campaigns, but they are promptly forgotten the morning after the votes are tallied. Remember “Change we can believe in”? Eighteen months later I’m still waiting for change and I still don’t believe.

In China, on the other hand, where they have efficiently done a way with the whole electoral process and skip merrily ahead to making policy and solving problems, political slogans are the CCP’s mission statement. They are useful for codifying the Party’s values so everyone is reading off the same script and knows at any given time exactly what they should be paying lip service to.

In the PRC, ideology is serious, and they need professionals to keep the Party spinning in the same direction. I’m just their man. I dream of having heated brainstorming sessions at the Party School just a few long nights away from our pitch deadline when we have to come up with that perfect slogan and supporting campaign. We’d go to the white board and list the ‘hot button issues’ along with the driving adjectives, critical verbs and other words that would optimize search results in Google; I mean Baidu. Then we'd package it in some memorable language.

China is wonderful for these slogans, even as far back as a few hundred years ago they were in place. Han rebels fighting the Manchus bandied the catchy phrase "Fan Ching, Fu Ming" ("Overthrow the Qing and restore the Ming"), which you got to admit wouldn’t have made a bad bumper sticker. When the CCP came to power Mao’s idealism and poetry ran wild with all kinds of slogans. They are too numerous to list here, so I will simply summarize as: “Better dead than not red!” And like any good corporate leader he went to town to ‘action that statement’.

Moving a long, I’ll try to quickly summarize over twenty years of CCP jargon before describing my own ideas for new campaigns. Don’t worry; when I get there I’ll spare you the supporting demographics, consumer surveys and SWOT analysis used to justify my thoughts. However, I can produce a lovely Power Point deck if necessary.

The Deng Xiaoping era – Two quotes by the former paramount leader summarize "Socialism with Chinese Characteristics" and the introduction of sweeping economic reforms. The first was “It doesn't matter if a cat is black or white, so long as it catches mice.” This meant being ideologically pure was no longer more important than, say, having a basic understanding of macroeconomic theory. But after a team building exercise in Tiananmen Square went horribly awry in 1989, some cadres were unclear where that left reforms. So a couple years later Deng went on to clarify his thoughts with “To get rich is glorious!” After that, the capitalist road in China was an eight lane super highway with no speed limit.

The Jiang Zemin era – More of a pragmatist than a wordsmith, Jiang pretty much rode Deng’s verbal coattails until late in his career when he suddenly became worried about his legacy. Deciding he should contribute something to the Communist lexicon he bet heavily on his “Three Represents”. Oddly enough this is when The People’s Daily also started populating its website with scantily clad runway models, I guess Jiang’s wisdom didn’t do much for circulation. In a nutshell, the “Three Represents” state that the CCP should “be representative to advanced social productive forces, advanced culture, and the interests of the overwhelming majority”. Or in other words, “since we have a bunch of capitalists in our country now, we might as well invite them to join the CCP, otherwise they might get their own political agenda.”

The Hu Jintao era – If you’ve spent more than a month in China with out hearing about a “harmonious society” please tell me your secret, because except for Taco Bell’s talking Chihuahua this might be the best marketing campaign ever. If a billion people can coherently regurgitate your brand message you’ve done something right. “Harmonious society” is closely linked to another Hu era catch phrase, “scientific development”. Both essentially aim at the idea that when you introduce capitalists to your system you start having winners and losers, and the losers need to be taken care of. After all, no one knows better than the CCP that “the meek shall inherit the earth”, and they’ll probably do it with a machine gun.

By the way, as a footnote to “harmonious society” check out Wikipedia’s entry on the topic. The wiki quickly raises the corresponding issue of “river crabs”, an interesting sign of the times.

OK, so let’s get back to my dreams of creating the slogan to describe the political platform of the eventual new leaders of China. Not that they would necessarily need one to get the coveted positions of Party Secretary and President, and Premier, but it wouldn’t hurt.

When thinking about what they have to communicate and how they can galvanize the CCP and Chinese society let’s consider the coming ten years. Right now China and its leadership are riding high; clearly the PRC is continuing to ascend. However, there are fissures in the system, economic bubbles could burst and then the leaders will likely have to fall back on nationalism to maintain its mandate. This has been more or less true for three decades, but the red star over China is perhaps reaching unexpected altitudes in the wake of a global financial crisis and the relative decline of American power.

In short, things probably haven’t looked this good for the rulers of China since before the damn Limeys showed up on their doorstep with high ideals about free trade and narcotics. Therefore, the next all-encompassing CCP slogan will probably be a careful mixture of pragmatic appeals to materialistic greed or necessity (depending on which socio-economic bracket you fall in) backed by a triumphant return of chauvinism matched with a healthy dose of authoritarianism.

To summarize, the message needs to say: 1. China has returned as a superpower, 2. Never forget the CCP got us here, 3. Problems are unavoidable, but we’ll continue delivering the goods no matter what, so don’t screw with us.

I have a few suggestions; I was partially inspired by the Olympic theme of ‘One World, One Dream’ and the World Expo theme ‘Better City, Better Life’. But also in true modern Chinese fashion some intellectual property was borrowed from other successful political messages and adapted to the local market:

• Glorious Civilization, Glorious Century – while forward looking, this trades heavily on the uniqueness and longevity of Chinese culture.
• 3 to 3 (Unity, Strength and Will creates Security, Prosperity and Respect) – a Chinese audience always appreciates employing numbers and symmetry, and it saves the writer from having to be truly clever.
• Zhongguo uber alles – It’s not subtle, but it’s refreshingly militant; it also has the added benefit of being a tested and proven winner.
• Liberty (sort of) Equality (mostly) and Fraternity (sometimes) – This doesn’t exactly role off the tongue, but it is steeped in a revolutionary tradition and a moral relativism that could be appealing to a mass market.
• We are many, so there! – Inspired by E pluribus unum (Out of many, one) this just comes right out and tells it like it is.

When thinking about this topic I invariably came to the conclusion that I might as well look to the true masters for inspiration, and this is where Madison Avenue meets Zhongnanhai.

• The CCP, when you absolutely, positively have to have a government (inspired by Fedex)
• Just do what we say! (inspired by Nike)
• Don’t think different (inspired by Apple)
• We bring good things to China (inspired by GE)
• We try (inspired by Avis)
• Have it our way (inspired by Burger King)
• CCP is it! (inspired by Coke)
• you’re lov’n it (inspired by McDonald’s)
• We’re not evil (inspired by Google)
• Probably the best government in China (inspired by Carlsberg)

Well, that’s all I got. But I encourage everyone to play along and send in your suggestions. The editorial team at Red, White & Blue in China enjoys reader participation.

About Peters, Dicks and Booms…

2010-03-15T21:44:00.007+08:00

My friend’s father gave her the best advice I’ve ever heard any parent give a young person when she graduated from college and prepared to enter the work force. It was: “Get ready to be disappointed, people are stupid!”

Truer words have never been spoken. I remember when I was young and naïve, I assumed ‘experts’ and other people in positions of authority, like say, my bosses in various jobs, journalists, cops, doctors, politicians, etc. had attained their ranks, titles and other powers because they were smart, capable, skilled and earned their credentials through hard work. Boy, was I dumb.

I’m jealous that my friend started her career with a level of enlightened cynicism that usually takes years to cultivate. I’ve been privileged to be educated by and work for some brilliant people, but they are comparatively rare in my experience. Sure, not everyone is ‘brilliant’, but I’m starting to get the impression that just being competent is sadly rare.

Here’s why; it seems to me the farther you go up any chain of command people stop paying attention to quality performance and longevity in a position and start paying more attention to politicking, covering their ass, and building an exit strategy. I know, this is hardly news to many readers, but it’s worth writing about anyway.

Why do I draw this conclusion? First, there’s the Peter Principle that states, "In a hierarchy every employee tends to rise to his/her level of incompetence." For example, the excellent factory worker or salesperson that gets promoted to management even though they have no clue how to manage. It’s a well-known phenomenon anyone who has ever had a job has probable experienced it.

Second, there’s what I call the Dick Principle, which might have already been postulated by someone with a PhD in organizational behavior or some other worthy social science. If it has I ask my faithful readers to please let me know so I don’t falsely claim any credit. The Dick Principle states, “Hierarchies tend to be filled with so many examples of the Peter Principle who attempt to prevent their incompetence from being exposed through negative behavior (lying, sabotage, bullying, stealing credit for others' work, hiding mistakes, etc.) that qualified individuals are dissuaded from wanting to rise in the hierarchy”. In short, this means a lot of worthy candidates elect out of an organization or opportunities to lead because they are completely turned off by their superiors and their organization’s culture.

The Dick Principle seems to be particularly strong in politics. How many citizens look at the US Congress or Chinese Communist Party and say to themselves “There’s no way I want to join that group of assholes”? But it happens in many corporations as well, when’s that last time you heard someone say “I hope I stay with my employer (name any Fortune 500 Company) until I retire because I find its leadership so inspiring”?

Third, there’s what I will call the Big Boom Theory, which is not to be confused with the Big Bang Theory and cosmological arguments based on Einstein’s physics, or a romantic encounter with a sizable member of the opposite sex. Rather, this is a theory on how organizations expand and implode, much like the universe or a large ugly boil.

My Big Boom theory states, “There is a tendency in any boom market for incompetent assholes to become even more abundant at the top of an expanding organization’s hierarchy and eventually the organization falls apart because of a critical mass of short-sighted negative behavior.” This is obvious, when a market, industry or organization is expanding at a dizzying pace the promotion of incompetence is accelerated; therefore their negative behavior is more widespread and insidious. In this model, the incompetents running an organization engage in dangerous short-term thinking and expose their organization to risk.

The Peters and Dicks engage in short-sighted dangerous behavior because they aren’t kidding themselves, they know they are incompetent, so they might as well get as much as they can and cash out quickly before they are canned. However, when everyone around you is just as bad as you are then you will probably never be exposed as a hack. Therefore the bad behavior and risk within the organization increases exponentially until it collapses in the face of rejection from the market, legal liabilities and government inquisitions.

When I think of the Big Boom a few examples come to mind. There’s the financial industry (AIG, Lehman Brothers, et al.) the automotive industry (GM, Toyota, etc.), and the entire print news media industry that failed to meet the challenge of the Internet even though they had over a decade to figure it out, etc.. But of course the list is endless.

So… we have Peters (incompetent leaders), Dicks (leaders who are assholes because they are incompetent), and the Big Boom (organizations that sow the seeds of self destruction in prosperous times because they fill up with incompetent assholes). Now let’s talk about China.

This is a booming market where foreign managers are frequently posted for two to three year tenures and multinationals are localizing as quickly as they can. Hmmm… seems to me there’s lots of potential for Big Booms. As most business leaders in China will tell you, finding and retaining qualified staff is a critical challenge in developing the long-term success of their organization. Here’s a few example the types of talent in China’s job market.

There’s he Tsinghua MBA graduate who brings a Hello Kitty pencil box to a job interview and has plenty of raw intelligence, but she’s never held a job a day in her lif and she expects to enter your company at middle management. Then there’s the codger who still drinks tea out of an old Nescafe jar but is connected with half of the departments in the ministry that regulates your business, he wants to be paid handsomely for reading the newspaper all day because, you know, his value is his guanxi.

And of course, there’s the laowai; they come in many forms. Newbies know everything about their industry and nothing about China, by the time they really start to be worth their fat expat packages they are on their way home again, or to a market that has better quality of life, because not everyone likes to breath air you can shovel. But there’s also the Chinahands, of course these are my preferred group of people, I am one of them, not an elite member but I reckon I’m somewhere between Padawan and Jedi Master. You have to be careful of Chinahands because being able to fluently recite the Dao De Jing and Quotes from Chairman Mao in Mandarin, or just their sheer number of years in the market, although impressive, doesn’t qualify you for a lot of jobs, even if they are offered to you at boozy backyard barbecue in Shunyi or over martinis at the Glamour Bar.

I’m not kidding myself; I’m not a genius. Although sometimes after a dozen shots of tequila I think I’m Superman, but with the mojo of John Shaft andrapier wit of Lenny Bruce. Yeah, that’s right, I’m ‘special’ that way. But I think I’ve leaned a thing or two after ten years working in China and now being roughly midway through my career. With all the Peter’s, Dicks and the potential for Big Booms there are a couple of things I try never to forget.

First, there’s no point lying to yourself or others about your capabilities, eventually someone will call you out, and reality, like payback, is a bitch. A bad reputation is a social disease, it’s fun and easy to get, but maybe impossible to recover from.

Second, as far as I know there’s only one solution to protecting your organization against Peters and Dicks and the catastrophes they create, and that’s culture. Organizations that have postive cultures don't let these guys run things. Peter’s need to be identified and their upward progress halted and Dicks need to be pulled out before they impregnate the organization with their bad seed. And when the good times are booming vigilance is even more important, because it’s the exuberance of a wild party that creates the hangover and other unintended consequences, not sober reflection during austerity.

So, when you are thinking about your organization in China, ask yourself “Has this 20-year boom allowed a lot of Peters and Dicks to slip in”? Sooner or later you might feel the pain.

The People’s Republic of Never Never Land

2010-03-08T19:17:00.011+08:00

I find George Will’s arch conservatism dogmatic, predictable and boring. I am unsure of his marital status, but in my mind he is a Stepford husband - a robotic personification of WASP Americana. I wanted to get that cheap shot at George Will out of the way before I move on. It’s my blog and I’ll do what I want.

Regardless of my opinions of George Will’s politics, I admit he is very intelligent and I usually enjoy reading his column when I get a chance. His piece in the last issue of Newsweek was no exception. The Basement Boys is thought provoking, and I assure my chaste readers it is in no way a reference to any kind of pornography.

The article is an introduction to Gary Cross, a Penn State University historian, and his book, Men to Boys: The Making of Modern Immaturity. As best I could glean from Man George’s pithy commentary and a quick read of reviews, the book argues that late Baby Boomer and Gen X men are reluctant to ‘grow up’ because of a social deluge of woman’s liberation, permissive parenting, contemporary marketing’s fetish for youth, and the decline of positive male role models in American culture.

In short, American men are a self-indulgent tribe of Narcissistic teenagers grown old. Some hard data is given to support the analysis. The data includes declining male academic achievements, the number of men living at home with their parents (thus the title The Basement Boys), and a rising median age of when men marry.

Generally speaking, I wasn’t terribly impressed by all of this, and the only reason I read this far is because a female ‘friend’ on Facebook posted it and ranted about how American men suck. Whatever, her rants about the paucity of eligible bachelors on the planet are frequent and I don’t usually pay attention to them anyway, but I would if she was better looking.

The comment in the article about positive male role models struck home, and I became fixated. Man George writes:

“If you wonder what has become of manliness, he [Cross] says, note the differences between Cary Grant and Hugh Grant, the former, dapper and debonair, the latter, a perpetually befuddled boy.”

The best way to appeal to my short attention span is to mention movies and TV. Comparing the two Grants, which are obviously incomparable, did help drive Prof. Cross’s point home. Think about it, the Greatest Generation had Clark Gable, John Wayne, Gary Cooper, Jimmy Stewart, Humphrey Bogart and Cary Grant. These were men! You go away on a weekend fishing trip with these guys you’ll come back knowing how to slay Apache, seduce the most beautiful woman in the city, and maybe dispense a little wisdom to some children in between.

They were decisive, active, romantic, brave, tough, resourceful, witty, and masculine. Let’s face it, most men would follows those guys into battle or pray they were lucky enough to have them as a wingman in a nightclub – anybody out drinking with Carey Grant or John Wayne is going to get laid!

OK, then there’s the 60s, 70s and 80s; you have Steve McQueen, Paul Newman, Robert Redford, Robert Deniro, Al Pacino, Clint Eastwood and Dustin Hoffman, etc. Generally speaking, I have no complaints; they’re all great actors and more often than not their on-screen personas are strong masculine role models; except for Tootsie where Hoffman remarks “I was a better man as a woman…” This might be where the wheels start falling off male role models in Hollywood.

The 80s is a particularly weird decade; you have the rise of Richard Gere’s career right next to Stallone and Schwarzenegger. What is a young man supposed to think? I should wear Armani and accessorize with a 13-inch survival knife in case the Russians invade? INSERT YOUR OWN CHEAP GERBIL JOKE HERE.

From the late 80s, to the 90s and the dawn of 21st Century is suddenly when Hollywood’s dream machine stops producing great male role models. Seriously, George Clooney, Brad Pitt, Leonardo DiCaprio, Nicholas Cage, Johnny Depp, John Cusak, Matt Daemon, Keanu Reeves, Vince Vaughn, Jude Law and Robert Downy Jr.? These all seem like boys grown older. First of all, could you describe any of them as being “rugged”, not likely. Second, think about the characters they play, charismatic, self-doubting, womanizing and weak (if not physically than emotionally). Are any of them someone you want your son to grow up and be?

There are a few exceptions, Denzel Washington is stellar, and the second half of Tom Hanks’ career is as well; less you forget he started on Bosom Buddies. Let me reiterate, I blame Hollywood not the actors for the roles they played. Or to go a step further, I blame America audiences for demanding Hollywood feed us these pretty boys long on looks and short on character.

I owe it to George Will, and Prof. Cross, I have never properly appreciated this phenomenon of American culture before. However, I can readily admit I have heard some discussion on this topic by American women in China. For all I know, European woman are complaining about European men in the same way, but I doubt it.

I hear some (not all) American woman in China say single expat (read American) men in China are a bunch of degenerates with a Peter Pan syndrome, i.e. they never want to grow up. Let me try to summarize their argument, these men:

• Realize that as foreigners Chinese women might find them interesting, therefore shamelessly seize this opportunity to date and sleep with young attractive women.
• Realize that booze is cheap and bars are open around the clock in China, and for some reason expat society in general is susceptible to drunken abandonment, therefore a lot of 40 and 50 year old men party like they are still 20.
• Are far away from family and friends that might subliminally or otherwise nudge them towards marriage, a house in the suburbs, and a couple of dependents to declare on their taxes, and therefore indulge in the first two bullet points.

I am not a woman, so I might have missed some of my and my brethren’s failings, but you get the point. Life in China for American men can seem almost like a long college weekend that lasts for years. Don’t take my word for it; go to the source. The blog China Dirt was a forum for expat women to rant about how much expat men in China suck. The blog has the tagline ‘Could the men living in China get any more retarded? Here are the horror stories from the front lines.’

If you don’t have the patience to scan the blog for estrogen charged horror stories, here’s a review by the City Weekend. The blog seems defunct, either its writers moved home or expat men in China have stopped being lame. I suspect the bloggers moved to greener pastures.

So, where was I? Right, foreign (American) men in China are immature. This leads me to a solution for the Basement Boys. If you are the parent of an unwanted male child residing in your home and you want them to leave (either for your well being or their own) but you just don’t have the gumption to kick their dumb ass to the curb, then buy them a ticket to China.

Here’s why. First, any knucklehead American with a pulse can teach English in China; been there, done that. The money is not bad and you get to meet a lot of girls, be sure to tell your sons this. Second, they will be in good company, there are a lot of slackers, ne’er do wells, and slimy older men to keep them company; everybody needs drinking buddies. Third, man cannot live on woman and beer alone, I know, I’ve tried, man needs entertainment too. Pirated DVDs are $1, so you can get the box set of the Director’ Cut of the Lord of the Rings Trilogy and watch to your heart’s content during your 20 hour work week when you are not sleeping with one of your ‘language exchange partners’.

Look, I’m not writing anything any expat in China doesn’t already know. All I am dong is trying to reach out and help the Basement Boys. Writing as someone who is quickly approaching his 40s and who has spent the majority of his 20s and 30s in China, I know this place has the capacity to keep you chin deep in the quagmire of adolescent fantasy, God bless it! But it also has the ability to make a man out of you if that’s what you are trying to achieve.

My first job out of college and out of the purgatory of teaching English was as a chief representative for a small consulting firm in Beijing, I was 26, signed a couple dozen Fortune 500 companies as clients and managed Beijing operations. This isn’t experience I was likely to get back home climbing up the corporate ladder like everyone else. Before that, I backpacked all over China, these were adventures that taught me self reliance, important social skills, and an appreciation for how hard life is in the developing world, all things the Basement Boys could use a big dose of.

God help the millennial boys and their quest for manhood, especially the ones wearing makeup and have more parts of them pierced than an Amtrak ticket.

Sasquatch is Never Going Back to Shanghai

2010-03-01T12:12:00.000+08:00

Beijing and Shanghai have a long-stemming cultural rivalry a lot like New York and Los Angeles. However, considering the Chinese sense of history and belonging to their native birthplace, the rivalry between the Northern Capital and the City on the Sea is heightened to an extreme degree. Sometimes Beijing people and Shanghai people flat out don’t like each other.

I am a confirmed Beijingren (aka ‘Beijinger’), or as Kaiser Kuo writes in flavorful soda pop prose "Ich Bin Ein Beijinger". And I am a proud Beijingren primarily because I’ve lived in the city a long time and can see it for its charms. I’ve got past the smoggy air you can cut with a knife, the landmines of phlegm on the sidewalk, and cab drivers who seem to freebase garlic everyone morning before going to work with its odor oozing out of every pour and orifice. You can say I’m lucky.

When I compare the two cities for other Americans I tend to describe Beijing as being 50% New York and 50% Washington DC – it’s the political capital, but also a traditional cultural center because of its historical landmarks, also universities as well as news & entertainment media are clustered in the city. Shanghai, on the other hand, is 50% New York and 50% Los Angeles – it’s the business & financial center of the country and a critical port, but also a lot of fashion and pop art is created there. Beijing is very ‘Chinese’ while Shanghai is decidedly cosmopolitan.

They are both great cities, but as I said, I prefer Beijing. And one of the reasons I do is that on my very first visit to Shanghai I was kicked out of the city within 12 hours after arrival. Dear readers, if you think I am proud of the fact that I can boast being kicked out of the world’s most populous city, well you’re right. By the way, I probably also did it in record time!

As with most good stories, it starts with the words “It wasn’t my fault...”

In fact, I blame my friend Sasquatch. I‘ve mentioned him in a previous posting about traveling to Tibet. After experiencing our own version of Misty Mountain Hop in Lhasa, my hairy friend and I made our way for Shanghai. The following is what happened and why Sasquatch will never go back. But before I get in to the whole drunken fisticuffs, running amuck in the hotel, police interrogation, “get out of town before sundown” story, let me first describe Sasquatch.

In high school Sasquatch was captain of the football team and the wrestling team in a Podunk Midwestern town where such lofty stations were hard won by corn fed farm boys. In college he transferred his athletic skills to rugby; a sport as far as I can tell he loved to play because it is within the rules to drink on the sidelines and deliver an occasional knuckle sandwich to an opponent as long as the referee didn’t notice. In summary, Sasquatch was a big, tough son of a bitch.

Big and tough doesn’t do him justice; he was a force of nature. Sasquatch’s consumption of food, beverage and chemicals was something to behold. For example, he chewed tobacco, but he never used a spittoon. That would have been uncouth. No, instead he swallowed the tobacco juice. And when he was hell bent on numbing himself again Chinese realities, for example while traveling ‘hard seat’ for three or four days at a stretch, he could chew (and swallow) tobacco and smoke cigarettes while simultaneously throwing back baijiu and warm beer. All of this was on a stomach fortified by the magical mixture of Tang and Ritz Crackers; a perfect traveler’s diet that I swear by. I also suspect he had a healthy appetite for mind-bending plants and fungi, but I cannot confirm this.

OK, so Sasquatch was big, strong and had insane appetites, well that’s not all. He also has a threshold for the sight of his own blood that would have made Rambo proud. Once while working a summer job as a welder on a construction site, a large I-beam swung dangerously out of control and gave him a glancing blow across his big square mug. The heavy steal object caught him right behind the ear and ripped half his face off. Surviving damage that might kill mere mortals, Sasquatch was in shock, but conscious. Most people I know would have lay down and waited for the ambulance to arrive. Not Sasquatch, he decided this was a rare opportunity to see what his naked skeletal face looked like. So he and his workmates walked to the bathroom and watched in the mirror as he pulled his face back to check out what lay beneath. That’s a true story by the way.

Yep, a real sicko. Sasquatch was great to hang around with; we had many adventures together. They include gunplay in Yunnan, bicycle jousting in Beijing, an encounter with the world’s ugliest prostitute in Lhasa, and getting thrown out of Shanghai.

So, when we arrived in Shanghai it was about five in the morning after a three-day train ride from Xining that was miraculously cut short by tiny white sleeping pills bought over the counter at the train station. We were bedraggled and travel funked, but ready to see the sites when we hit town. Being good backpackers we decided it was a waste of the cost of one night in a hotel to check in at that late hour. So we decided to go for a walk through the French Concession, have breakfast and start drinking.

First we gorged ourselves on baozi and beer while watching the early morning taiqi practitioners in Renmin Park as the sun came up. And for one reason or another we decided it was a good idea to raise the stakes to Bloody Maries made with ghetto Russian vodka and tomato juice heavily spiced with Tabasco sauce swiped from some five star-hotel. For obvious reasons, I forget the details about how and why we procured all the ingredients. But I assure you it seemed like a good idea at the time.

Anyway, a few hours later we were quit foxed; and I mean blotto! It was noon, a perfect time to check into a hostel and get our money’s worth, so we started looking for accommodations. Unfortunately, we encountered a kind of hostel we hadn’t banked on.

We tried three or four places, no dice; everywhere was full. Facing the prospect of passing out in the gutter, we began to worry. However, one hotel recommended another, and unfortunately I can’t remember its name, because that’s where Sasquatch met his doom.

As we were checking in my friend needed to relieve himself, he was directed to take the elevator to the nearest men’s room on the third floor. After twenty minutes or so, Sasquatch had still not returned to the front desk. I was left waiting and wondering how a guy that big could misplace himself. Then I asked the desk clerk to watch our bags as I went upstairs to look for him.

When the elevator doors opened I was faced with a sweating, bleeding, battle-crazed Sasquatch with his fist cocked ready to knock out the first person in sight. Needless to say, parts of my body puckered. When I asked what happened he told me four men with clubs assailed him the moment he stepped on the third floor and then proceeded to try to relieve him of his wallet, watch and other valuables. Sasquatch took several blows but managed to curl up into a ball and protect his jewels and other prized assets.

My wild friend was raised to believe if you fall off a horse get up and shoot it. Once Sasquatch regained some of his senses he took it upon himself to deliver some Texas-style justice to the perpetrators, including the staff of the hotel - who he was convinced must have been in on the ambush. Insults were thrown, weapons brandished, and my short life flashed before my eyes. It was utter mayhem; I loved it, especially because no one beat me up.

The cops arrived on the scene. I remember being relieved by that, and then I realized they weren’t on our side. For about an hour or so we were on the receiving end of ‘good cop / bad cop’; I guess some things are universal. However, the scrupulous occidentals confounded the police. You see; we didn’t lie. Separately, we gave them our story straight, but they just didn’t want to believe two foreign exchange students got mugged in a Shanghai hostel. I guess they feared it would end up in the Lonely Planet and the flea trap would have been deficit a star, whatever.

The leading municipal storm trooper on the seen insisted Sasquatch and I were drunk. OK, guilty as charged. But he also insisted we made up the whole story and that Sasquatch was mentally unstable. Well, that wasn’t a case I wanted to defend in front of a jury, but we were highly insulted nonetheless. Sasquatch was the victim!

He wasn’t about to take it lying down either. As long as I live, I’ll never forget hearing the words “Run! I’m gonna’ hit the cop.” Well, if that had happened, I wonder if I would be so willing to write about this today. Quickly and diplomatically, I threw my scrawny two hundred pound frame against my monstrous woolly friend and reminded him that they held our passports in one hand and cattle prods in the other. Where was I supposed to run to?

I talked him down, and then the cops were ready to let us go, on one condition. That’s when I heard the equivalent of “be out of town before sundown” in Mandarin. We were driven to the train station and told that as far as the Shanghai police were concerned we never need to cross the Yangtze again.

I don’t hold a grudge against Shanghai. I’m over it. But Sasquatch swore never to return. I miss that freak; the last I heard of him he was a cuckolding collections agent with pending applications to law school. I pity the debtor or opposing attorney who ever runs across him.

The "Other"

2010-02-20T11:11:00.012+08:00

In 1993 at the impressionable age of 21 I was sitting in a bar in Lan Kwai Fong thinking about returning to the United States after spending a year in China when I met who appeared to me at the time to be the Obi-Wan Kenobi of expatriates. Mr. Kenobi had spent the better part of 30 years living and working in East Asia and he had a lot of good stories to tell. He even had a British accent like Alec Guinness.

We had a few beers together, he regaled me with his wisdom and I told him about living in Mainland China – a place he had not visited. At the end of our talk, he turned to me and said, “It sounds to me as if you are about to embark on the kind of life that I have had; you are going to have a wonderful adventure. But let me give you a piece of advice…”

Dear readers, I waited with baited breath for this great Jedi Master to impart on me secrets of the Force. What was this one last thing he wanted me to know? And then he said; “One of the most important things you should remember is: never marry a white woman.”

Somewhere across Cyberspace a bunch of guys are laughing if their wives or girlfriends are not in the room while others just called their spouse over to read this. Now, before I lose a certain demographic of readers of this blog, I implore you to please read on as I gallop through the minefield of the topic of interracial dating & marriage.

I’ve always remembered Mr. Kenobi’s advice, mostly because it’s a pretty interesting story to tell. But also because I think I understand where he’s coming from. First, let me interject this: when it comes to love, never say never! In this sense, his advice was really pretty bad.

If you live on the other side of the world for half your adult life it’s pretty hard to avoid dating someone from a different race. I have dated a few Chinese girls, so I’m talking from experience. I also date Western women when they bother to give me the time of day. I have no strong preference either way; if anything I just really like any smart, good-looking woman that happens to also like me. I’m funny that way.

It is only recently that I have come up with a theory on interracial romance. I’m no scientist, but here it goes. What if somewhere in our brains we are hardwired to be attracted to the "other” – someone of a different race, or different hair color and skin tone, or even just someone with a cool foreign accent? The biological argument would be that somehow our bodies know that it’s good to have a deep and rich gene pool.

Early man and woman must have realized that having kids with their siblings and cousins didn’t produce good stock. After all, no one likes a hunchback. So maybe they learned that intermingling with other tribes was a good thing. Unfortunately in early history it was expressed in bouts of raping and pillaging as opposed to speed dating.

I think most everyone can admit the idea of being with someone from a different culture, race, etc. is somewhat attractive. The "other” is mysterious, and that can be titillating, no? I think this is why “gentlemen prefer blondes” and “blondes have more fun”; in North America they are comparatively rare. I bet blondes in Sweden and Switzerland don’t have any more fun than anyone else.

Another argument that suggests we might be somewhat hardwired to be attracted to the "other” is that I notice that people tend to go gaga over kids from a different race. Kids are cute anyway, but in my experience it gets stepped up a notch when people from one race look at kids of another. Of course maybe this is only my perception, but I have discussed this with friends of many colors, and we tend to be in agreement. And, I also think Gary Coleman owes his career to this phenomenon.

But of course there are problems. We are also conditioned by our societies not to trust “the other”; someone who is different than us could be “bad” or “undesirable” for any number of reasons. I mostly chalk all that up to flat out bigotry and jealousy; and I have no time for anyone who thinks like that.

In the end, we can’t help whom we fall in love with, it just happens. But jumping across some imaginary line and being with the "other” can be quite appealing; whether you are a Montague or Capulet, Yankee fan or Red Sox fan, cat person or dog person, or one race or another.

The Year of the Tiger from the Perspective of a Rat

2010-02-13T21:07:00.007+08:00

Explosions are tearing apart the night across China, car alarms are blaring and I got a belly full of dumplings and Tsingdao, it must be New Year’s. Welcome Year of the Tiger, good riddance Year of the Ox. I think a lot of people around the world can agree that the ox left us knee-deep in shit - fuck you, you old cow.

I look forward to a feline year. Nimble, compulsively sanitary, aggressive and playful; this sounds a lot better than a bloated herd animal whose flatulence are so plentiful and noxious they even threaten our climate. Yep, I expect in almost every way it’ll be nice to set the tiger loose.

Living in China, there’s a kind of purgatory that takes place between January 1 and the end of Chinese New Year celebrations. Not a lot happens in the country during that six weeks or so, everyone looks forward to the upcoming week-long holiday; and if they can, people put off decisions of all kinds. This is particularly great for us foreigners, because it provides an extended grace period before we really have to pony up and at least pay a little lip service to or New Year resolutions.

As I sit here looking out my apartment window and the rockets’ red, white, blue, green and yellow glare from the fireworks lighting up the city, I’m taking stock. I’m not exactly sure what my resolutions are, I still have over a week before I really need to commit. Like everyone else I suppose I just want to be a little bit better in a few small ways - drop a few pounds, make a little more money, be a just a little happier and successful.

In thinking about these things it struck me that there’s a lot of wisdom in the Chinese zodiac and its cycle of twelve animals. I am a Rat; that is, I was born in the Year of the Rat. Now I’m not a particularly superstitious person, but I find it fairly interesting that I happen to be a very good example of a Rat, according to www.chinesezodiac.com:

Rats symbolize such character traits as wit, imagination and curiosity. Rats have keen observation skills and with those skills they’re able to deduce much about other people and other situations. Overall, Rats are full of energy, talkative and charming but they have a tendency to become aggressive.

Also, in their careers, Rat’s are:

…extremely perceptive and wise, Rats can focus on the big picture. That ability along with their good judgment enables Rats to solve problems before they arise. Rats focus on titles because titles translate into status and money; two motivating forces. Rats make excellent bosses. Routine halts their creativity so Rats need flexible positions that allow creativity.

And,

They can at times be tense, aggressive, and full of nervous energy, conditions that can lead to stress.

What I find fascinating about this is that I have taken a few personality/work style-profiling tests and they more or less are accurate, I guess. But a lot of money could have been saved and a few over-priced corporate trainers could have spent their time doing other things if I just told them I’m a Rat and we all moved on. In fact, I think I’ll start putting “Rat” on top of my resume and save some HR departments a lot of hassle.

That was my first point about the wisdom of the Chinese zodiac, it actually seems to know what it’s talking about. By the way, I’m also a Leo, but if I waited until August to write about that if would be a boring blog post.

My second observation is that the Chinese zodiac is cyclical. That is a tautology, I know, but in the West we see our solar calendar as has having a beginning and an end. The years go by in a linear progression, one replacing the next with ever mounting expectations of progress. For example, 2010 is supposed to be better than 1910, right?

In the Chinese lunar zodiac, the animals come back around again; so to roost one might say. The Year of the Ox sucked, well too bad, because it’ll be back again in 2021. In my experience, that’s not something many Westerners think about much, the endless cycle of the nature and the universe - where as it's built into China’s most important festival.

The nice thing about paying attention to cycles is it can help you avoid repeating some of your mistakes. I think that’s why the Buddhists place so much emphasis on reincarnation, if you know you are going to live your life over and over again, you tend to think twice about a doing a lot of stupid stuff that’s going to comeback to haunt you.

So, where does that leave me with my resolutions? I’m not sure, but I hope I’m not making the same resolutions again next year.

My Religious Experience on the Way to Tibet

2010-02-11T15:05:00.001+08:00

In my first year in China I realized one of my childhood dreams; I traveled to Tibet. I’m not entirely sure where this dream came from; it might have been from Agent Cooper in Twin Peaks, or W. Somerset Maugham’s The Razor’s Edge. But the idea of traveling to the other side of the world and up the Himalayas to catch a little Oriental wisdom and a chance at enlightenment had enthralled me ever since I was about 16 or so.

My friend Sasquatch and I left Beijing one summer day on a train for Xining, the capital of Qinghai province – a part of China so beautiful the PLA tests it’s nuclear weapons on it. On a mutual dare, Sasquatch and I decided to take the 3-day train ride by ‘hard seat’, the lowest class of ticket available. Back then hard seat was double rows of metal and wooden benches facing each other separated by a small table in the middle. At any one time there might have been up to 150 in a car. Mind you, except for two large young Americans, these were mostly peasants and maybe some university students.

Accommodations were fetid; thankfully Sasquatch and I stayed fairly well lit on a steady stream of baijiu, warm beer and Tang on top of a diet of Riz Crackers and instant noodles. These were things that were all readily available at almost any train station in 1993. To this day, I swear nothing will keep you healthier if you happen to find yourself on a Petri dish / cesspool rolling through the desert. Baijiu kills the germs and the Vitamin C in Tang gives a nice boost to your immune system – we created a cocktail mixing the two, it’s called a Wrench.

Sixty or seventy hours later, we arrived in Xining thoroughly done in by exhaustion. My nerves were frayed, I was filthy, and my digestive system wanted to separate from me and fly back to America. When we hit our hotel room Sasquatch promptly collapsed. I was too excited and after a long hot shower I was almost a new man. It was time to see what Xining had to offer, after all we would only be there one night because we had to catch a train to Golmud the next day before jumping on a two-day bus ride to Lhasa.

The first order of business was food. There was a kebab stand not far from the front gate of the hotel and I descend on it like a jackal after the carcass of a Cape buffalo. This is where my religious experience happened.

Now you might think that after three days without sleep and plenty of bad food and booze I was ready for a hallucination of Christ himself selling kebabs and demanding penance for my misspent youth. Not quite, it wasn’t that kind of religious experience. Although I once had something like that a Grateful Dead concert in Vermont.

This was another kind of religious experience, not one in which I experienced God, but rather where I experienced religion in a new way. I bought a beer and ordered a fistful of spicy kebabs; after I satiated myself greedily for a few minutes I struck up a conversation with my neighbor at the kebab stand. He was also enjoying a beer and a large quantity of kebabs; he looked like a fellow backpacker. Sure enough he was, my new friend was Japanese and he was also on his way to Tibet; he was also very excited about it because he was a monk.

This struck me as odd, I don’t know many sects of Buddhism in which it’s OK for the monks to swill beer and eat meat. It seems to me that’s how one ends up being reincarnated at as dung beetle or something else equally undesirable. So I asked him, “What gives with the beer and meat? After all, you’re a Buddhist monk.” He rather serenely replied, “That’s true! But I am a bad monk.”

OK, this is not the same thing as the Madonna revealing herself to me and granting the power to lay hands on the sick, nor is it Buddha's Four Noble Truths. But it was a bit of an epiphany. You see, I grew up Catholic, and the whole time I went to Catholic school I never heard a priest, monk, nun or bishop declare themselves a bad one. Maybe that would have undermined their authority, who knows? They all admitted they were sinners, but that goes with the territory. For me, it was refreshing to meet a self-deprecating monk who admitted he was weak, but still trying.

The self-proclaimed ‘bad monk’ and his example helped me realize something. On the road to enlightenment or the path to Heaven, or whatever, it’s more about the journey then the destination. We all have our failings, but it’s the commitment to being better and picking ourselves up after we fall that defines who we are and where we are going.

Looking back on that trip to Tibet, I guess I was looking for something, and it seems kind of wonderful where I found it.

“You Don’t Understand China”

2010-02-10T08:29:00.000+08:00

From time to time I’ll give out ‘doing business in China’ advice in this blog. I do not have the credentials of scores of other writers who make a living doing this. I have never blown a multi-million dollar deal, I have not had my business stolen from me by a joint venture partner, and I have never gone bankrupt. But I am still young, I might yet achieve the same elite status others who give business advice in China have.

There are four words that every foreigner doing business in China who hears them should sit up, pay attention and get ready to take action. These words are “You don’t understand China.”

Other foreigners who say these words are more likely than not just posturing and are full of bullshit. They probably want to sell you their consulting services. I won’t waste my time with them. In this case, I am specifically referring to when a Chinese person says them to a foreigner.

I equate this statement by the Chinese to be similar in meaning and intent as the protection offered by the Fifth Amendment of the US Constitution. Defendants evoke the Fifth Amendment “on the ground that the answers that would be given could be used as evidence against the witness to convict him or her of a criminal offense.” This is not just a legal term; in pop culture “pleading the fifth” means “I don’t want to answer that cause it could get me into trouble.” Thank you John Gotti.

There are several reasons why a foreigner might be told “you don’t understand China,” in my experience sometimes what the speaker really means is:

• “In fact, you really don’t know that much about China.”
• “I can’t be bothered to come up with a coherent argument or explanation, so let’s just attribute this problem to your ignorance.”
• “I know more than you, let’s keep it that way.”
• “I’ve done something wrong, but it’s ok because I going to try to cover up my actions with my country’s culture, inadequate legal system or pervasive corruption.”
• “This is China, I’m Chinese, let’s just do what I want to do.”

You see why you should pay attention when you hear this? And for those of you who have not been to China or have not been here long, take my word for it, this gets said a lot. In fact, all you have to do is pick up a newspaper and read some headlines. When The PRC is criticized by the West for human rights, currency manipulation, or almost anything else, invariably the argument that comes back in a statement from the Foreign Ministry is often some form of “you don’t understand China” argument.

This argument is convenient because it is based on the logic that China is unique and complicated, and most Westerns don’t appreciate this enough. All of this is absolutely true. No wonder the Chinese love to say it.

What I take issue with is that the Chinese like to hide behind it; it’s too often used as a crutch to dismiss valid concerns by outsiders. When you do business here, if you let anyone say this to you and get away with it, you probably deserve to lose your shirt.

I have a solution. It’s not the all-mighty green kryptonite that will solve all your China business problems, but it’s a good tactic to use against any colleague, business partner, government official or anyone else who says this to you. You should respond with a simple “explain it to me”.

If after saying this you are told ‘no’ or confronted with a multi-layered attempt at obfuscation, then you know what you are dealing with. That person has no interest in helping you, which also probably means you don’t share a common objective. You will need to deal with that misalignment as best you can. If it’s important enough to you, it’s time to invest in finding someone who can answer your questions. This is where the high-priced consultants, or maybe different business partners, come in.

On the other hand, if your genuine interest in hearing an explanation about what you supposedly don’t understand is met by a real attempt to enlighten you, then you have found someone who cares enough about their relationship with you to foster it with knowledge. Dear readers, such colleagues, business partners and friends are worth their weight in gold. Find them and reward them.

The Ayi from Hell

2010-02-08T23:34:00.001+08:00

Folks, I am not a rich man, but I am sufficiently slovenly to invite the assistance of an ayi, that’s a maid to you non-Chinese speakers. True, I live in a one-bedroom apartment that does not require much housekeeping; I could do it myself. But for less than $100 a month, having someone come in twice a week to make the bed, do laundry, iron my shirts and dust a layer of Gobi Desert off my floor is a cheap luxury. That is, until something goes horribly wrong, and you wake up one day to find Satan with dish gloves and a mop has moved into your residence.

I am not talking about my current ayi; she’s a wonderful woman who barely does a mediocre job and gets paid handsomely for it. Thankfully, she makes my life just a little easier. No, I am talking about the ayi that held my friend and I psychologically hostage in our own apartments with her lunatic behavior. This was a woman who made me live in fear.

In the late 1990s I lived in Huajiadi, which was the local ghetto for foreign trash in Beijing: English teachers, translators, interns, students, and other laowai twenty somethings with their fist jobs out of college. To this day, I still have a set of good friends who were my neighbors at this poor Chinese version of Melrose Place.

Huajiadi was our own little bohemian village of concrete blockhouse apartments. The compound I lived in was decidedly rustic, a family of chickens was raised in the courtyard; so was a small crop of hemp plants. Our apartments were cheap and functional; but even back then my friends and I had ayis.

I will not name the guy who introduced me to her, although he should be drawn and quartered. The woman had worked for him for a year; he very well knew she was a psycho and should have warned me. Instead he mentioned she was a little ‘off’, but a fantastic ayi; he suspected cleaning was some kind of catharsis for her. If that’s true, the woman probably murdered children, bathed in their blood, donned a suit of her victims' decomposing flesh and danced in the moonlight if she didn’t get her hands on a mop and feather duster at least once a day. She had some serious demons to exorcise.

I also share some of the blame. When I interviewed her I could tell right away she wasn’t right in the head. You see, like Gollum in the Lord of he Rings movies, she referred to herself in the third person. Our first meeting went something like this:

Author: “Can you come on Tuesdays and Fridays?”
Ayi: “Yes, ayi can come then, ayi cleans very well! She’s a good ayi…”
Author: “Uhhhh, ummm… ok. Can you start next week?”
Ayi: “Yes, ayi will start on Tuesday.”

I shook it off at the time, but I should have realized then and there I was in danger of having one of my digits chomped off by the crazed woman and might very well get pushed into a pit of lava for my trouble.

Anyway, I hired her, and before things got really bad, I recommended her to a very good friend of mine, we’ll call him Jose. In spite of this, Jose and I still remain friends to this day.

At this point dear readers, you are all probably asking yourself “how bad could she be?” Sorry to keep you in suspense, for starters the ayi’s cleaning uniform was an old-fashion set of full-length red woolen underwear and white sneakers. She looked a little like a matriarchal version of Thing One & Thing Two from The Cat in the Hat. By the way, a handful of the half dozen teeth she still possessed were gold. This is the stuff nightmares are made of.

Here are a few examples of her work before I describe the worst offenses. On a couple memorable occasions I returned home from a hard day’s work to find:

• Most of my dishes taken from the cupboards and stowed in the refrigerator; the ayi figured since I never had any food she might as well put the dishes there because it was the cleanest space in the kitchen.
• My precious few good suits were taken off their hangers in the closet, neatly folded and placed in drawers.
• My pants ironed with broadside creases so when I put them I on it looked like I had two khaki chimneys jutting from my crotch; it wasn’t a flattering look for me.

OK, none of this is that bad, right? The worst was when I came home a little early one day after the ayi had been working for me for over a year and I saw her cleaning the toilet… with my back brush! Pause a moment and think about it. It was an honest mistake on her part; she saw a brush in the crummy little bathroom and drew a conclusion. But, God!

So obviously she wasn’t the world’s greatest ayi, why didn’t I fire her? Because I was afraid what would happen if I did. She knew where I lived and I was fairly sure she was unstable; events unfolded later that further heightened that suspicion. Also, by this time I was only a few months away from leaving China and going back to the US, I figured I could just stick it out.

Jose had his own problems with her. First, there was the cat. Jose was cat sitting for a month or so while a friend went home during the summer. The ayi took one step into the apartment and gave the animal a disapproving look and immediately asked how long the offensive pussy would be on the premises. The ayi, it appears, was afraid of the cat; so much so she might have very well tried to frame the cat in a bit of domestic dooty terrorism.

One day Jose came home to find an enormous turd on the windowsill inside his bedroom. At first glance he assumed it was the cat’s, he was pretty sure it wasn’t his. But after careful inspection, he concluded it could have been the ayi’s. There was no evidence; a team of crime scene investigators didn’t take a DNA sample. But the simple fact was the turd was roughly half the size in length and diameter as the cat, and it would have been a miracle for something so small to poo something so big.

At this point, we started suspecting the ayi was capable of anything. I was grateful I was leaving the country. This leads me to my last ayi story. A couple of weeks before I was to leave China for the second time I took a vacation to hang out with some monks in a Tibetan lamasery and practice my chanting; really. While I was away, the ayi came to my apartment, saw a lot of my stuff boxed up and assumed I’d skipped town without paying her for the last month. She then called Jose at the office and demanded to know my whereabouts. Being the helpful friend he was, he said I left town. Jose’s Chinese was functional, but not great. I think a little might have been lost in translation.

The ayi whirled herself into a fury! She wanted her money; no American slacker was going to cheat her out of her hard earned wages. She demanded the money from Jose, who is a genuinely good guy, so he quickly caved in and agreed to pay. Great, she was on her way to the office to collect. Two hours later, the ayi shows up at a place of business after ridding roughly 10 kilometers on her tiny flatbed tricycle on a hot day. The ayi was dressed in her woolen red underwear and sweat rolled off her face in streams as she berated Jose and cursed me. Jose paid her quickly and got her the hell out of the office.

Within a few weeks I out was out of the country and safely away from the Ayi from Hell. Jose dealt with her in his own way. He moved to the other side of Beijing and told her he didn’t need an ayi anymore.

To this day, I have never bought another back brush.

Either/Or

2010-02-08T06:34:00.004+08:00

From time to time the author leaves China, sometimes he goes home for Christmas, other times he travels the world looking for romance, wisdom and a really nice beach. I remember having one of the best conversations I’ve ever had with a woman in a restaurant in Jakarta. I will pass on the fruit of this conversation to you. Those of you who are single can use it on your next date, those of you in a relationship may want to think twice; the author is not responsible for ruining any relationships other than his own.

First some background, although my new lady friend had recently moved to Indonesia she previously lived in Beijing and a mutual friend introduced us, so we had something in common. The woman in question, who I shall call Regine for literary reasons, is a tall blond with long legs who looks great in a miniskirt; she also has a fantastic… brain. Seriously, the woman is sharp! And I like that. I’ve never been overly attracted to bubble headed bimbos, I’ve ogled a great number of them in my time, and will continue to do so, but they are not what sets my heart on fire. For the record, I prefer a nice ass piloted by world-class gray matter.

So we were having one of those ‘get to know you’ conversations. We discussed living in China and Indonesia, our childhoods, and we discussed torture a fair bit. Regine worked in the field of Human Rights and legal reform, so she was a bit of an expert. I, on the other hand, have delusions of grandeur about writing suspense novels, so the subject had mutual interest. For the record, we are both against torture for anything other than a good plot device, but light spanking on any occasion was not entirely ruled out either.

Anyway, the first hour or so of the evening passed quickly, the conversation was stimulating, the food and drink were good, and we enjoyed each other’s company. But we were starting to run out of things to say, when one or both of us came up with an idea for a game. I really can’t recall how it originated, my apologies to Regine if it was totally her idea.

I’ll call this game ‘Either/Or’. It has nothing to do with the book of the same name by the Danish existentialist Søren Kierkegaard, although the chapter ‘Diary of a Seducer’ is at least a little relevant. By the way, Søren had the hots for some young woman named Regine Olsen, and that’s the origin of my friend’s pseudonym.

The game is played by asking a series of questions with only two possible answers, the person answering the question must pick ONLY ONE of the offered answers. It’s usually more interesting if you explain your answer.

For example; “Who is better, the Beatles or the Rolling Stones?” If I recall correctly, I answered the Beatles because I love their lyrics and musically they extended themselves further than the Stones. We discussed how the Stones had better guitar rifts and were better party music.

Another question was, “Where would you prefer to vacation, at the beach or in the mountains?” I am a confirmed beach person, lots of good books, an endless supply of cold beer and a sunny beach is my idea of paradise. Regine, I was surprised to find out, preferred the mountains. I remember coming to the conclusion that almost all mountain people are very active and sporty vacationers, they want to hike and rock climb, etc. I think beach people on the other hand tend to be lazier. This is valuable information when men and women are considering each other.

By the way, I believe Regine has the metabolism of a humming bird on crack, she is constantly on the move, she works hard and plays even harder. In stature and behavior I’m probably more like a grizzly; large appetites and bursts of activity heavily punctuated by cozy sloth.

I’ll give one more interesting example from the game, I asked “Who do you prefer, Humphrey Bogart or Cary Grant?” For women, this question is which guy (screen persona) do you want to be with? And for men, “which of the two do you want to be?” She said Bogart and I said Grant. Here’s why; we both agreed Bogey is cooler, and he’s a tough guy. But Bogey is usually a dark, brooding, remorseful man who lets the girl get away (e.g. Casablanca and The Maltese Falcon). I’d rather be Grant, star in more romantic comedies and bag Grace Kelly (To Catch a Thief), though I’d prefer to be slightly less metrosexual.

We played this for an hour or two and had great fun, especially when our answers surprised each other. We quickly discovered the two of us have a lot in common and got to know each other as well as a guy and girl can over one dinner. I suspect the danger of the game, if there is one, is that you can very quickly learn if you have no earthly reason to be with the other person, and that can make for a short evening.

For example, I won’t be with a girl who doesn’t like dogs. For that matter, the more cats she has the more likely I think she’s probably an ax murderer. I guess this leads me to the conclusion that if Jessica Alba was as dumb as a box of rocks and had 5 cats I wouldn’t even consider dating her; well… maybe.

Please enjoy the game; I hope it works out well for you.

My First ‘Last Night in China’

2010-02-08T06:30:00.001+08:00

Expatriates are essentially global nomads. One facet of living in Beijing is the annual round of going-away parties; I have had two of my own. The first was an unforgettable experience, primarily because I witnessed the closest thing I’ve ever seen to an actual miracle or Jedi powers. It is also memorable because I was right when almost everyone around me was wrong. In my book, that makes for a good story.

It was a cold December night in 1993, my first year in China was coming to end and a few fellow North American laowai and I were out to make a night of it. I had arrived in Beijing roughly twelve months earlier to study for one semester; one thing led to another and I took a hiatus from college, traveled to Tibet in the summer and then found a job teaching English in Beidaihe from August to December. For those of you outside of China, Beidaihe is the Hamptons of the PRC; the beach wasn’t at all bad and it had the added bonus of containing a mediocre strand of hemp that grew just along the roadway leading to the shore. More about my tenure in Beidaihe in another posting.

So I was back in Beijing for a few days before heading to Hong Kong and back to New York. Back then we didn’t have Sanlitun, or ‘bar street’ to the uninitiated, we had Uighurville. As the name suggests, it was a section of Beijing where ethnic Uighurs had a conclave, it was in the Weigongcun area of the city and close to the university where I had studied.

I will not go into a long exposition on who the Uighurs are, that’s why God made Wikipedia. But I will add my own footnotes to their history in Beijing. Their cuisine it excellent, it comprises of hardy noodle dishes, roasted lamb and nan bread. For Westerns surviving on steady diet of Chinese food, it was a welcome change to something a little more familiar.

So, as students we tended to congregate in Uighurville, we went for the food but stayed for the nightlife. And what a nightlife it was! The area was a couple of square blocks with a main drag of two dozen or so restaurants that stayed open late into the night. During warm weather, tables and chairs where placed on the street so everyone could eat their kebabs and Yanjing beer in open air and watch a certain amount of mayhem unfold.

Dear readers, if you detect nostalgia in the author’s words, you are right to do so, sadly, Uighurville no longer exists. In 1998 or 99, my memory fails, the city fathers decided to eradicate what was probably Beijing’s only ethnic neighborhood. Ostensibly it was because the whole area was being renovated and a giant shopping mall and new residential buildings were to be erected.

However, many assume the neighborhood was ‘gentrified’ because it was a thriving center for the drug trade and the scene of many late night brawls. Also, in March 1997 ten people were injured in a bus bombing in Beijing, this was only weeks after three simultaneous bus bombings in Xinjiang (the region of China Uighurs come from) and the death of Deng Xiaoping. Uighur separatists were widely suspected for the Beijing bomb and it seems likely city fathers where happy to get rid of a whole neighborhood of what they potentially saw as would-be criminals and terrorists. The PRC government really can be a spoilsport sometimes.

One quick note on stereotyping Uighurs, the author’s favorite Uighur kebabmonger was a man with a nasty scar running diagonally from his forehead across an eyebrow, nose and lip. Rumor has it he sold hashish; I will neither confirm nor deny that veracity of that rumor. While munching on kebabs and tossing back a couple beers together one evening I asked him, “What happened to the other guy.” He very coldly responded, “I won the fight!” My point is some Uighurs are badass mothers.

Anyway, back to my last night in Beijing. So there I was, a worldly 21 year old who just spent his fist year in China, fell in love with the place, and was celebrating his impending departure with a night out in Beijing in a neighborhood local Chinese considered to be something akin to 125th St. in New York or Compton in LA. Me and three other guys had just finished a round of beers and were chewing happily on our first course when a wild man burst into to the restaurant.

Although it was a cold winter night, the man wasn’t wearing a coat and his shirt was ripped and half hanging off him, he was also covered head to toe in dirt and patches of blood. In any other neighborhood this would have been bad for business, to foreigners in Uighurville, this was just some more local color.

As it turns out, my friends knew the guy, he was a friend or cousin or whatever of the restaurant’s owner. The owner impressed upon us we would be doing him a favor if we let this fellow sit with us and keep him from leaving the restaurant. The man in question had just been in a fight in a nearby alleyway and there was concern that if he went back out on to the street something very bad would happen. We all readily agreed this was just the dinner companion for us.

More beer and food was ordered as we quizzed him about the fight. He happily showed us various scrapes and bruises, including bloody knuckles and a series of viscous bite marks on his back that did not appear to have been delivered affectionately. We all congratulated him and stood in awe; this was a man!

By the way, I would be remiss if I forgot to mention that this fellow was heavily intoxicated on God-knows-what. When I looked into his eyes I definitely got the impression that the hamster had slipped the wheel. This makes the next turn of events all that more extraordinary.

After hearing about the high points of the fisticuffs in the alley, we laowai settled into chattering with each other, more beers were ordered, and more conversation ensued… in English. He didn’t speak the language, and I think our friend was frustrated in no longer being the center of attention; he changed that in a momentous way.

He snatched a porcelain bowl from the table in one hand and with the other stretched out his index and ring fingers and waved them in the air. He then proclaimed “I can pass these two fingers right through this bowl. Do you want to see my try?”

This caused a lot of muttering among us. Did he mean his fingers would magically pass through the bowl without breaking it? “No! Don’t be stupid,” was the reply, but he could force his two little fingers through the bowl with a flick of his hand.

I rapidly said that would be amazing and I’d like to see him do it. My companions were bigger humanitarians than I; they all quickly disagreed with me and suggested I shut up. Our friend had obviously suffered enough for one evening; a couple of broken or cut fingers weren’t going to do him a bit of good. Besides, he was obviously off his head on something; it would be cruel to goad him into attempting anything stupid.

I agree; I was cruel. I slapped a hundred kuai note on the table and proudly stated he could do it, so the others should put up or shut up! My character was called into question, but money was put on the table, half of us for and half against.

I have read tales of intrepid explorers marching into the darkest regions of obscure countries and befriending local tribe by saving the offspring of its chief from a terrible fate, or curing malaria with a gin and tonic, or singlehandedly wiping out the enemy tribe armed with only a smart horse and a six shooter. These daring exploits win the undying loyalty of hard, savage men; the explorers become blood brothers and honorary members of the tribe. Dear readers, this was just such a case. When I threw my money down and sided with him without hesitation, our Uighur friend turned and gave me such a look of gratitude and loyalty I think I could have asked him to kill for me. It’s a pity I don’t know what’s happened to him since.

In a flash, the man’s arm ripped through the air and with a neat jerk of his hand, two finger cracked through the bowl and knocked a perfect delta shape chip out of it two inches long, sending it tinkling across the floor in one of the most triumphant sounds the author has ever heard in his life. It was simply amazing. Winners and losers of the wager cheered in admiration. More beer was ordered, a lot more, the bill was paid by the winnings.

How did I know he could do it? Well, truth be told, I really didn’t. I was mostly just drunk and thought it would be an interesting thing to do. However, I did think the odds were on my side. First, never bet a man against his own trick, you’ll probably lose. Second, Uighurs have their own version of Central Asian machismo which is usually backed by some serious conojes. So, I was fairly sure this guy had done this trick before and wasn’t talking out of his ass. As it turns out, I was right.

And that, dear readers, was my first ‘last night in China’. No wonder I came back as soon as I could.

Why I Love Living in China

2010-02-08T06:19:00.000+08:00

I can’t count how many times I’ve had someone remark to me “I just can’t understand why you choose to live in China.” It’s interesting to note nearly as many Chinese say this to me as Americans.

For my American friends and family, images of choking pollution and Orwellian totalitarianism immediately come to mind when they think of the PRC; which, if their experience with China is solely via commentary from US cable news outlets or brief visits to the country, is somewhat understandable. My impression of New Jersey based on views from the Garden State Parkway and The Sopranos or the Jersey Shore is not flattering.

I intimately understand why Americans think I’m nuts, we assume everyone in the world wants to live in America. If you prefer a small dose of socialism, binge drinking and the metric system, Canada and Australia are fine alternatives to the Home of the Free and Land of the Brave, but only if you are willing to settle for second or third place.

When the Chinese comment on my choice of country of residence it strikes a chord. They are echoing the sentiments of many Americans; they look across the Pacific, or only as far as pirated DVDs of Sex in the City and Desperate Housewives, and they see the United States as a form of middle-class bliss with the possibility of upper-class Nirvana. And I admit, they have a point. Swimming pools, strip malls, blue skies and uncontaminated milk are indeed nice things. I enjoy them whenever I can.

But then there’s the Siren song of the gritty, vibrant and intoxicating China. In the Jazz Age, when prostitution and opium were till fashionable, Shanghai earned the name the ‘whore of the Orient’. Well, hey, we all have a past.

Nearly a century later, after political and social revolution in many forms, I think China’s status can be upgraded to ‘the MILF of the world’. She’s all grown up now and has her children to look after. With money in the bank and some self-assurance, she’s half respectable; but make no mistake, she’s still a saucy, lustful animal that knows how to show a fellow a good time.

Comparatively speaking, Uncle Sam seems like a wheezing octogenarian high on his own stash of Viagra and cough syrup. But we’ll leave that rant for another time.

Mind you, when I say MILF, I mean it. Every Fortune 1,000 company would like to have her spread eagle and asking for more. But China is no tramp; she can say no, she can play coy, she can even two time you with your closest friend or competitor and still make you buy her dinner later in the week. China plays by her own rules. This, my friends, makes the place really interesting.

Like the sea, or the Wild West, China is a frontier. It’s an incubator for green technology, a battleground for cyber warfare and free speech, it’s one of the last great under-exploited markets for fast moving consumer widgets, and it’s the site of the largest infrastructure projects in world. Whatever you are into, chances are it’s happening in China. And if you don’t know it, look out, because you could get run over.

And that’s what keeps me here. Not only do I have a front row seat to the greatest show on earth, sometimes I even get to participate in a small way. Quality of life is in the eye of the beholder. A four bedroom / three bath in the Rancho de Grassy Knoll subdivision is nice, God bless the American dream. But for a soul that seeks a little adventure, that relishes the prospect of being at the epicenter of momentous changes in human history, one could hardly do better than being in China at the dawn of the 21st Century.

For better or worse, the “interesting times” as mentioned by one famous native of the state of Lu are happening here and now. And being an American adds a certain perspective; awkwardly straddling two great world powers and influential cultures, I am fortunate to see the world through a strange and exciting set of bifocals. I can hardly wait to see what will happen next.

Since I’m rambling, I’ll let you in on a little secret. I’m not alone. There are hundreds of thousands of foreigners living in Beijing, Shanghai and Guangzhou. Sure, many are here because this is where the money is. But if you find a laowai who has been here a few years or more, I bet you that’s not why they stay. Watching a billion people transform a society from Confucianism to Communism and then to something else is more alluring than a gold rush and more tragic than a freeway accident. The world can hardly keep its eyes off.

I suppose I’ll make it home some day, but for nearly twenty years now I can’t shake the feeling I’m in the right place at the right time.