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.

CHINESE BRIAN DENNEHY* AND THE WHITE SPIRIT

It’s the last round, finally. Several men, made overconfident by drink, accept top-ups of baijiu (the “white spirit”), and gulp them down, half glasses of 90+ proof grain alcohol. Briefly, they glow with the approval of their friends and the heat of the liquor; and then, they start to crumple. The young military policeman across from me, with a handsome scarred face that makes him look like a martial arts villain, appears to be throwing up in his mouth and swallowing it down again. A few seats to my right, kindly-faced engineer Lu Zong**, can’t even sit up straight. On our way out I ask him if he is ok, telling him he shouldn’t have drunk so much; he assures me he is fine and slurs an invitation to continue the evening at a lakeside bar. Several minutes later, while I am chatting with the martial arts villain in the lobby, Mr. Lu throws up at the restaurant entrance. “He had a good time” says my host. “If he wasn’t enjoying himself he wouldn’t have drunk so much”. In Chinese I am typically polite to the point of deference but I feel terrible for the unfortunate Mr. Lu and say I think he was bullied into overdoing it. “You shouldn’t say that”, comes the quick reply, “he was happy and honored by your presence, so he drank a lot”. I want to ask if there aren’t better ways to express one’s happiness but I shut up and mentally revisit the evening's progression.

I arrive at the restaurant just before 7 on Sunday night, making my way to the private room that has been booked by my host, Fu Bai**. Taking a deep breath I open the door slowly and look in. Mr. Fu, in a seat facing the door, spots me instantly and suddenly 12 sets of eyes are fixed upon me, 12 pairs of hands applauding my arrival. I am not the guest of honor – that distinction belongs to the venerable Da ge (elder brother), a senior party official who is seated to my right. Mr. Fu, on my left side, spits out rapid introductions to his laoxiang, all of whom hail from the same province.

Among the guests, seated at the round table in order of status: an aeronautics company vice president, a restaurant owner, a public security official, two military policemen, a few wives. They have all been waiting for me, and now that I am here, the drinking must begin. Rushing through the introductions, Fu Bai coaches me to raise my glass to the table and say a few words. Each of us has a goblet of baijiu and a tiny glass to decant into. The other three women present drink juice instead of liquor. I stand, raise my glass and toast the table. But this is not enough. I do it two more times and then I sit down. I’m sweating. I’m getting tired of this game.

Mr. Fu is an old friend of my “boss”, the woman who runs the project I am studying. We were first introduced back in February at a banquet he hosted, and he has since invited us to several big dinners and a palatial Chinese spa. I’ve dined with architects, a general, and the party secretary for the Chinese aeronautics industry. I’ve done this mostly for my boss, because it gives her face to meet all these powerful people, but also because it gives me the opportunity to make contacts that could help me with my research.

And of course, I thought it would be interesting. If I possess feminine wiles*** back home I don't know it, or know how to use it, but here I know full well that I am a novelty - even a catch, and it makes sense to use this to learn what I can about powerful people who would otherwise never grant access to foreigners. I remember joking with friends back home about how I was going to infiltrate the CCP. Apparently this is what I get for all that hubris.

Mr. Fu clearly appreciates more than my ability to attract important contacts and amuse his friends. One night his driver dropped my boss off at her home and Mr. Fu moved to the backseat to sit next to me. He had wanted to take me to a bar where he would be meeting some Chinese Air Force officials but I claimed to have suddenly remembered another engagement. At the bar I called a Chinese friend and begged her to come and rescue me from devious hands and plans.

Mr. Fu is a cadre, or government official, in the Public Security Office. He’s cagey about what he actually does, but I know it’s not good. Often on “business trips” in areas with persistent ethnic or labor unrest, he returns to Beijing with a seemingly endless appetite for seafood and liquor. Standing at a mighty 5’4”, Fu Bai wears polo shirts tucked into trousers belted around his barrel-shaped midsection. He looks a little like a Chinese Brian Dennehy.

Dark-skinned from his youthful stint in the army in Tibet, he has a broad face, a devious glint in his eyes, and speaks with a musical (but frequently difficult to understand) provincial accent. His rubbery mouth reminds me of a dolphin’s.

During his introductions at the table, Mr. Fu states aloud the drinking capacity of every man present, and boasts of my own. There are murmurs of approval at my education, my language skills, and my ability to eat and drink Chinese-style. Concern is expressed at my lack of a husband and the table comes to life as they discuss who it would be suitable for me to marry. Several favor a jundui ren (a military man), but then someone brings up baomi (secrecy) and argues that no Chinese jundui ren would be allowed to marry a foreigner.

I’m having a hard time following the conversation because Mr. Fu is constantly prompting me: I should toast this person, I should try this dish, I should serve Da ge, the guest of honor next to me, from the spinning platter in the center of the table. I feel like a plaything, if playthings were required to drink heavily.

It was only on this visit to China that I discovered my capacity for baijiu. It’s terrible stuff, strong and fragrant, and I never found any reason to seek it out while I was studying here and socializing with foreigners. But baijiu is a vital staple of banquet life and a lubricant for (primarily male) business and politics more generally. There are hundreds of varieties and every region has its favorite. The price ranges wildly from $1.20 US for the bottle of Red Star on the left, to $120 US for the bottle of Maotai on the right.

While my mother was in town Mr. Fu hosted a banquet for us, encouraging me to drink so much that I blacked out and later got sick in my mother’s hotel room. While he apologized profusely for worrying my poor mother to death, he didn’t let up with the invitations. Last week he called or texted three times with dinner invitations. Each time I told him I was busy and finally he asked when I would not be busy. So I acquiesced. I thought he needed to save face and expected that he would respect my promise to my mother to never drink so much again.

Still, I’m not much surprised at this latest banquet to find that Mr. Fu is not being good to his word. I try covering my glass when the refills come and tell him several times that as a filial daughter I must adhere to my promise but it’s no use. I have to toast Da ge, I have to toast Lu Zong, I see no end in sight. So I try subterfuge. Filling my small glass from my goblet I pour fast and make sure to spill as much as possible. During a drinking lull I visualize knocking the small glass over, as if by accident, when next I reach for it. Later, I pour some on the floor. No one notices. I’m jealous of the other ladies, sipping their juice with ease and grace.

I’m not drunk but I’m certainly not enjoying the drinking and I don’t like the limp, sweet dishes or the huge quantities of meat. I devour vegetables and make sure to sample everything else out of politeness though as a general rule I don’t ask what anything is. The one time I do so, trying to change the topic from Mr. Fu’s suggestion that we go to Shanghai together to see the Expo, I am told the dish is yezhu. I don’t recognize the word at first but then it dawns on me: wild boar.

So I’ve got my wish, haven’t I? Were I willing, Chinese Brian Dennehy would be taking me to banquets twice a week, introducing me to the Chinese elite, feeding me expensive cuisine and top-shelf baijiu, and letting me observe the inside workings of power.

For that is the point of this whole deal; while on the one hand the dinner, with me as the exotic draw, serves to consolidate long-standing ties between men in different industries and government positions (competitive drinking is a great leveler); on the other hand many of the men present clearly have pragmatic aims: as the booze flows they get up and stand in clusters or move around the room, passing around expensive cigarettes and talking in confidence. I watch one man move in close to speak with Mr. Fu and then approach Da ge, the powerful man next to me. I can’t hear them over the din of the room but I can guess any number of shady deals could be involved: maybe it’s a land grab, maybe it’s a big bank loan, but whatever it is, it is clearly worth it to this guy to attend this dinner and drink himself silly so he can capture Da ge’s attention at an opportune moment. And just as clearly, there’s no reason for him to let me in on whatever it is he is up to.

This is the worst part, worse than sleazy Chinese Brian Dennehy (I want to ask about his wife and two young children when he attempts to wipe some splattered food off my blouse but I just get up and take care of it myself) and chewy flavorless wild boar, and liquor that tastes just as I imagine J. Lo’s latest fragrance smells: the fact that I am surrounded by powerful people and interesting goings-on and yet I am almost completely shut out of it.

Early in the evening a man a few seats down from me starts off on a rant about the US government. He has worked in financial affairs, he says, and believes the bankers and the Fed want China to be little more then a colony. I'd like to hear more but Da ge cuts him off sharply, saying he’s said enough. There is less censoring as the evening progresses and I later discover another reason the man is not partial to Americans. Red-faced from drink he announces that while the American people are mostly good but he really prefers to spend time with Russian xiaojies (xiaojie, or young lady, is also a euphemism for a prostitute).

But aside from a few tidbits such as this I learn nothing new from the evening. Conversation directed at me takes the form of either joking or flirtation: Mr. Fu offers to send one of the military police with me to the bathroom for “protection”, a man who has some secret government job tells me he works as a priest. I’m not the same person when I’m speaking Chinese, when I’m Qiao Wei instead of Erika. It’s not just language limitations but how the language shapes who I am and what people expect of me. So it is that the guileless, charming, passive Qiao Wei has become a perfect foil for powerful middle-aged men who want to flirt and boast and look cool in front of their friends.

“We met in the military” Mr. Fu tells me of four of the comrades present “during the kangmei zhanzheng (literally the war of resistance against America, referring to what we call the Korean War)”. I nod dumbly, still processing the language, and then protest “but kangmei was in the 50s! you’re not old enough for that!” The table roars with approval at the success of Mr. Fu’s joke and my rudimentary awareness of Chinese history. It’s really rather humiliating. I worked so hard to learn this language, to win funding, to navigate my way into a institution, gain the trust of my coworkers, my boss, and her friends; but here all that matters is that I am attractive, obedient, and gullible.

In the car, Mr. Fu and two of his friends encourage me to join them in more drinking at Houhai but I tell them I am tired and wish to go home. As I am getting out of the car Mr. Fu asks for a kiss, pointing to his cheek and puckering his lips. His friends laugh. I can’t think of anything to say but xia ci ba (next time).

The next morning, I will go to the office and tell my boss that as much as I don’t want to harm her friendship with Fu Bai, I don’t want to go to any more banquets. I will tell her I felt like a plaything last night and that I don’t trust that Mr. Fu’s advances won’t go any further or that he will respect my promise to my mother not to drink too much. She will tell me she understands, that I shouldn’t go if I don’t want to. There will never be a next time.

*thanks to Austin for the title inspiration

**names have been changed, to protect me.

***I have no idea what this actually means

MOMVISIT, PART II: THE PRETTIEST DAY OF THE YEAR AND THE ONSLAUGHT OF SUMMER

Spring in Beijing lasted exactly one day this year and it was one of the finest I can imagine. I took the mom to Jingshan Park behind the Palace Museum (aka Forbidden City) and we climbed the artificial hill built from the soil removed to create the massive moat around the complex in the 14th century. Both the Palace and the park remain, auspiciously, at the very heart of the city and on a clear day the views are spectacular and the combined weight of history and concentrated political and economic might make the place almost stupefying.

Looking south over the Forbidden City.

Close up showing "The Egg" (the National Performing Arts Center) just south of the Palace and west of the Great Hall of the People.

Looking west at Beihai Park, Xizhimen, and the hills of the Summer Palace in the distance.

Looking North towards the Bell and Drum towers and the Olympic Village (I was gazing particularly fondly at my part of the city, 东城区, on the far right just beyond that big clump of trees).

Of course we had to go for the dorky costumes again, this time with me as emperor:

Later, a Chinese guy in line behind us butted in on my mother's solo photo session then insisted I join in as well. A small crowd gathered to gawk and snap photos and there was much laughter at my designation as 第二个皇帝 (2nd emperor).

One of the five pavilions on the hill:

The ceilings and beams were all painted vividly (restored of course) with renderings of flowers, clouds, and cranes with wings outstretched.

Looking up the hill from one of the lower pagodas:

Lilacs were in bloom all over the park and smelled delicious.

As usual, the crowd was evenly mixed: half tourists (the vast majority Chinese) and half locals socializing, playing games, or exercising. I had explained to my mother that in the traditional Chinese view of physical health and wellness it is vital to promote circulation through both movement and external pressure. It is not uncommon to see elderly folks walking through parks slapping their torsos and legs or to end a yoga class with a hearty round of self-abuse. Mom was delighted to find visual proof in this two-for-one: a woman stretching while slapping herself!

Close-up action shot:

Folks playing card games in the shade of a crabapple tree.

Such pretty blossoms.

The next day it got up to 87 degrees but not until late afternoon. We walked around some pedestrianized shopping streets like Wangfujing (pictured below) and Qianmen.

On the way home I had to stop at a shoe repair shop to have the Indian camel-skin jootis I had been wearing stitched back together where they were coming apart at the seams. Mom took this picture of me sitting barefoot on a stool outside while the cobbler practiced the ancient skill of superglueing. 75 cents later we were back on the road.

I am under strict instruction to post only those photos of my mom that she herself has approved but I can't see how she could possibly reject this lovely shot of her sitting at a terrace cafe in front of the drum tower. Ain't she gorgeous folks?

I believe I have previously mentioned in this forum the fondness of some of my Chinese friends for banqueting me; having my mother in town made everyone even more excited to take us out. This was fun, but exhausting. I had to translate everything and felt sorry for my mother being force-fed everything from chicken claws and cow stomach and unable to communicate with anyone else at the table without my assistance.

The most enjoyable dinners were the two with my dear old teacher Chang laoshi and her husband Wang Junjie, who knew my mother from the Christmas they spent snowed in with us in Seattle. Chang laoshi is due to have a baby any day now and both of her parents have come from their home in Inner Mongolia to make preparations and take care of the expectant mom. In an effort to eliminate sex-selective abortions Chinese doctors are not allowed to reveal the sex of the baby while it is in utero, but I have been told that regardless of whether it is a boy or a girl I get to choose an English name for it. I can't wait.

On Saturday and Sunday, with summer temperatures and May Day (International Labor Day) crowds making outdoor sightseeing unpleasant, mom and I visited some more museums: Capital Museum for Chinese and Beijing history, artifacts, and religious/decorative objects (like these fantastic animal-headed marble figurines - why don't these guys have their own comic book or action movie yet?)

and the Beijing Planning Museum for nerding out on things like water conservation and transportation and for admiring the massive scale model of the city.

While most of the city within the 3rd ring road was included in the model (and meticulously so; the model of the 27 story building where my office is even included a recent penthouse add-on), about 75 percent of the metropolitan area was represented by satellite photographs. I was dismayed to see that my home was included in the latter; it is dead center in the picture below.

Tiny CBD!

It reached 91 on mom's last day in town but given the vagaries of Beijing weather I'm not packing my sweaters away completely just yet.

I asked my mom to take this picture of me in front of a Cialis display at a drugstore. My friend Stephanie's company developed the drug and I'm sure it will put her mind at ease to know that people here have been stocking up.

Mom also took one last picture of me standing at the entrance to my building, really much nicer than it looks here.

I saw her off to the airport on Monday morning and now she is safely back home in Seattle and I'm still here, my home for now, and in a certain sense, forever.