SON OF A CRACKAJACK MAN

I had been thinking for a while about exploring a new research direction involving China's independent "fake fighters", who work outside of the state's consumer protection organizations to expose poor quality goods, false advertising, and other scandals; or act as legal advocates for consumers who don't understand their rights. Last week it occurred to me that the obvious place to start was with someone affiliated with the institution I am embedded in. I contacted him and found out he lived near Changsha, the capital of Hunan province, below.

I booked a train ticket and was aboard a sleeper train the very next day. The trip took about 16 hours, most of which I spent sleeping, some of which I spent planning out my interview questions, and much of which I spent berating myself for forgetting to bring my passport and wondering how I would find a hotel that would accept me (the policies are strict here: foreigners must register with the local police station wherever they are staying and hotels won't accept foreign guests without the necessary documents).

In the morning I made two cups of black tea from the hot water machine at one end of the carriage then brushed my teeth at a sink on the other end of the carriage while a woman next to me held her baby up to piss (at least I hope so) in the next sink over.

When I arrived in Changsha I texted my contact but he was still at his regular job and told me to walk around on my own for a while. And so I did.

I found colorful fruits, peace-loving personal fans shaped like robots, and pedestrian overpasses hovering over intersections like giant mint-colored spiders.

View from the above overpass:

The city made no extraordinary impression on me, although I was surprised at all the lush, flowered greenery. It was not hot, but the air was heavy with moisture and cotton garments were a necessity. The jumble of architectural styles, profusion of cigarette/tea/liquor stores, broad boulevards, and sidewalks with lines of bricks with raised tiles (to guide the blind) were all very familiar.

My contact, who I'll call Mr. Tang, picked me up just after noon and we went to a nondescript place for a local specialty, 堡仔饭 (rice, meat, and vegetables cooked in a clay bowl - a little like Korean Bibimbaap, but don't tell any Hunanese that).

The rest of the day was spent at a lovely teahouse on the river, where Mr. Tang got us a private room with two grey velvet couches, an internet console, and a flat screen TV. The amiable owner stopped by several times to chat, smoke, and chew betel nuts and insisted on paying for our tea and dinner. It was a fascinating afternoon and I learned a great deal from Mr. Tang, who was very open with me about the politicization of many of China's independent consumer advocates. Hark! The IRB is listening! I shall say no more.

That evening, Mr. Tang insisted on taking me to Changsha's bar street, where we visited an unbelievably bumping club called Margarita, with a metal detector at the door, several go-go dancers atop some of the tables, and a whole lot of top-shelf whiskey on the menu. We had hardly sat down when a wiry Chinese guy with glasses edged on to the stool next to me, thighs pressed against mine, and said something completely drowned out by the pounding beats. I looked at him with confusion, and then to Mr. Tang. My new friend then got up to speak to (or rather shout in the ear of) Mr. Tang and much back-slapping and glass-clinking ensued. When he walked away I asked Mr. Tang what he had said and he explained that he told him I had just arrived in China and didn't speak a word of the language. "Good work!" I told him, and laughed. A few minutes later, our new friend was back, and now he wanted us to join us at his table. My opinion was not consulted, I merely followed them to a raised section where a glass of whiskey and sweetened black tea was poured for me by one of three middle-aged nouveau riche guys who were on their feet, dancing to the throbbing music as only middle-aged nouveau riche can. I sat down. "Remember," Mr. Tang leaned over to tell me, "you don't speak a word of Chinese!"

From the bar, Mr. Tang (who had not had a drop of alcohol - China's drunk driving laws are extremely strict) drove the 45 minutes or so to his hometown and installed me at a hotel in the city center. To my surprise, they didn't seem to care in the least that I was foreign. Mr. Tang used his identity card to book the room and explained to me that no one enforced the rules about registering foreigners where there rarely were any.

I tucked in after scribbling down some notes and woke to this view from my seventh floor window.

"The red point shows [my] excellency seat"

In the morning I dropped off the room key at the front desk nervously, still not quite trusting that no one was going to turn me in, and went to the nearby McDonald's to wait for Mr. Tang over a cup of tea.

We ate breakfast at a nearby hole in the wall with fantastically random wall decorations. I ate my spicy rice noodles (米粉) while thinking about how much I wanted to cut out the picture of the naked baby and place him horizontal in the beach scene. Perhaps I have been making too many postcards lately.

I can't think of the last time I saw a picture of Mao in a little restaurant like this and I don't doubt that this one had something to do with the fact that the Chairman was born and raised (and formed the local Communist Party) in a village only a half-hour drive away. That, of course, was our next stop.

Although Mr. Tang has probably made a few dozen trips out to Mao's hometown of Shaoshan in his life on behalf of guests he isn't the Chairman's biggest fan. So while he napped in the car, I waited 25 minutes in the line to enter the Mao family compound (my recommended soundtrack for the activity = the album Amnesiac).

Although the house was apparently ransacked by the KMT at some point in the 1930's, it retained some of its original furnishings and has been carefully reconstructed. Below, his parents' bedroom, and the place where Mao himself was born in the late 1890s.

Something you may not have known: Mao Zedong's father was not only thrifty and smart, but a "crackajack man" (CLICK ON PHOTO TO MAKE IT BIGGER).

Chairman Mao's bedroom was almost identical to those of his two younger brothers, both of whom died in the decade of fighting that preceded the founding of the republic.

Outside, no posing possibility was overlooked.

Returning to the car after my visit I woke Mr. Tang gently so as not to surprise him but he kept sleeping so I pulled out a Chinese magazine to read, looked out the window, and thought for the ten-thousandth time how strange my life is.

Our next stop (or my next stop, Mr. Tang once again remaining in the car) was to visit a memorial statue.

The statue was in a park of sorts at the end of a long, broad walkway bordered by nicely groomed grass, flowers, and shrubs which tourists were implored to feel deeply for (CLICK FOR BIGGER).

Indeed. It also creates scaffolding, guard offices, and choreographed performances of nationalism (see below).

Small speakers, camouflaged as rocks, played rousing music which grew in volume during the procession.

On my way back to the car I stopped at the Mao Zedong memorial hall, which opened onto a statue with a not insignificant resemblance to that of honest Abe at the Lincoln memorial.

In the souvenir store, alongside fake antiques, gold heart-shaped necklaces with Mao's face on them, posters, watches, fans, and statues of all sizes, there was a booth where you could have your picture taken and inserted into the scene of your choice for a buck-fifty. I chose Mao in front of his boyhood home. And I shall cherish it forever.

I took a bus back into Changsha later that afternoon and had planned to explore the city for a few hours before my train was due to leave but when I pulled out my ticket to check the time I realized to my dismay that the ticket was for the night before.

So it was back to the hateful ticket office, where I stood sulking in the horrible mug, watching the digital screen showing trains and available seats/sleepers/seatless tickets flip by. I furrowed my sweaty brow as I watched the last tickets disappear for the train I wanted and wondered if I would be standing my way home to Beijing.

But in the end I was able to buy a new ticket for that evening that gave me a few more hours to walk around the city, which led to me witnessing a performance by adorable little girls in front of a local shopping center.

I skipped the dance of the pink fur clad 3-year olds to catch my train at the fantastically Soviet-style station.

And the story ended, as it always should, in sleep, sweet rumbling-through-the-countryside sleep.