China café

My note to myself read: dinner for ten Atomic Bombshells, 7pm. I'd been warned that the burlesque troupe like to let their hair down…
March 1, 2009
On the road in China

During the Chinese new year holiday I took the family (wife, two children, recently widowed father-in-law, dog) on a road trip. It was a novel concept for my Chinese wife and her father, and only agreed to with some trepidation. I explained the principle: that we should expect the worst, and then everything would be fine, and neglected to admit that it was my own first road trip.

It was a resounding success. We stumbled across remarkably pleasant state-run hotels, with helpful and charming staff, at precisely the right moment at the end of each day. We ate well, slept comfortably, and the children (and their father) roller-bladed around hotel car parks, much to the amusement of the guests, who mostly seemed to be attending school reunions.

We stuck to minor roads through the mountains of southern Zhejiang, which were stunning, and wound our way to the coast, where we achieved the trip's aim: a slap-up seafood feast. Then we turned around and drove home. The journey lasted a week.

We followed signs to holiday resorts that hadn't been built, and passed others which had fallen down due to faulty construction. We saw hotels that looked like hospitals and tried to check into hospitals that looked like hotels. We drove through impoverished yet picturesque old villages, and skirted newly rich ugly ones. At our only city hotel, on the coast, I smuggled the dog up to our bedroom in the service lift, with the hookers. Elsewhere the receptionists all made an exception for her. (The dog, not a hooker.) We circled cities that were no more than dots on the map which had business districts like miniature Manhattans.

Along the way we confirmed several truths. China is very, very big. Outside the big cities the locals are genuinely friendly. And fathers-in-law are excellent travel companions.

Outshining the Atomic bombshells

During the holiday season I attended two dinners where the company was predominantly, in fact overwhelmingly, female.
 
One was the new year party my neighbours threw for their aiyis, the 20 or so housemaids who look after the ever expanding network of farmhouses for rent down the valley. Dinner was held in a restaurant at the foot of the mountain. The other was a booking for the Lodge, our restaurant and coffee shop, by a burlesque troupe from Seattle who had been performing in Shanghai. My note to myself read: dinner for ten Atomic Bombshells, 7pm. I got a kick out of that.

I was on my own in the restaurant so I joined the Atomic Bombshells for dinner. I had been warned by a friend that they like to let down their hair and might give an impromptu performance. The conversation was fast and risqué and included mention of recent nipple slips and other "costume malfunctions." But then we retired to the fireplace where the Bombshells put their feet up, drank whisky, and discussed the recession.

The aiyis on the other hand, whose average age was about 60, and who have never been near a city, let alone a burlesque show, went ballistic at their party. We hardly had a chance to sit and eat, so frequent were the toasts, and you cannot refuse when a five-foot-nothing tightly-bundled ball of energy thrusts a bottle of beer in your face. There was dancing, hugging, laughing, singing and non-stop drinking. I was even invited back to "their place" afterwards. I made my excuses.

Moganshan spring water is liquid gold

The phone call disturbed my quiet afternoon at home. "I am in your coffee shop and I would like to meet you." The man spoke ponderously, in a Swedish accent. I started thinking of excuses. He went on. "My grandfather had some property in Moganshan, and I have the deeds with me, and other papers I can show you."

"I'll be right down!" I shouted, and ran out of the door. Primary source material about Moganshan's history is extremely rare, as I know from researching the book I have just written. And as for a foreigner with material, Mao Zedong might as well have turned up for a chat about an afternoon he once spent here.

Mr G from Sweden was a retired construction site manager. He and his wife were tracing the journey of his grandfather, who worked in Shanghai in the early 20th century and bought a piece of land in Moganshan in 1908. He never built anything on the land and abandoned it when he left China in 1915.

Mr G and I found the land straight away. It is now the site of the Moganshan Spring Water Factory, one of the main sources of income for the local government. The spring was right in the middle of the plot, as marked on Mr G's grandfather's map.

"There's the family fortune you never had," I said to him, somewhat carelessly. "Liquid gold."

Mr G laughed, a little too ironically. A few weeks later I received a long and serious email from him, in which he said he intended to press a claim for ownership of the land and looked forward to my help in dealing with the authorities. I made my excuses, in earnest now, and I have not heard from him since.

I hope he understands that, unlike his grandfather, I mean to stay here.