My coffee shop is open for business again. So far, we've had only occasional custom, but that's an improvement on this time last year. The Moganshan tourist season doesn't kick off until May. The big hotels are still deserted, which is why Xiao Zhou, a waitress at the nearby White Cloud resort, dropped by for a chat. She ended up helping out in the café. I think she enjoyed the change and it was useful to have a professional waitress around. Xiao Zhou is also very pretty and that seems to make people thirsty. We did well for a few hours.
Once the small rush had passed and we had a chance to chat, I asked her how things were at the White Cloud.
"Tough," she said. "We've been clearing snow all week, and opening up rooms."
"Have you ever thought of moving on, Xiao Zhou? I mean, you are obviously someone with potential. You are good with customers, intelligent…" I ended the list with a subtle job offer, which might then lead to something else. (We are looking for a manager.) I was really saying: "Why not better yourself?"
"But if I leave the hotel, there will be trouble," Xiao Zhou said, declining my offer. In explanation, she mentioned a friend who had moved from one state-owned hotel to another in the village, and was given trouble by her former boss.
I was disappointed, both for myself and Xiao Zhou. She was missing out because of her fear of the system. Justified or not, the fear is the "what if?" that all too often leads to the "we'd better not, just in case." It is a self-censorship of ideas—or in this case dreams—before they are voiced, the same Chinese ideas Mark Leonard thinks will change the world (see Prospect, March 2008). There are millions of Xiao Zhous in China.
A three-hour hike for a haircut
At the end of February we had a late snowfall, which made it impossible for me to drive. For the last time this winter, I had to walk down the mountain again for supplies. The road was covered by an icy white blanket. It takes about an hour and a quarter to get to the village at the foot of the hill where a minivan taxi can take me to town and the market. The walk back up is longer of course, depending on how much I am carrying. I usually allow an hour and three quarters.
While I was puffing my way back up with a rucksack full of food, I met Mr Shi on his way down. We stopped to chat, as you do in the countryside.
Mr Shi is a sprightly 73 years old. He works for the forestry department and supplements his official monthly salary of 400 yuan (£26) by running a stall selling drinks and snacks near Sword pond. The pond is Moganshan's main tourist spot. A very long time ago, two husband-and-wife swordsmiths, Mo Yue and Gan Jiang, tempered their blades in its clean spring water. Hence the name Moganshan (Sword Mountain).
Mr Shi began with the standard opener. "Going up the mountain?"
"Yes. You going down?" I replied, following the formula.
"For a haircut," he said.
I had not seen Mr Shi since last year. "Did you go back to your country for new year?" he asked. I told him I had. He meant the Chinese new year and I meant the western, but that didn't matter.
"How long is the flight to your country?" Mr Shi asked.
"Twelve hours," I replied.
Mr Shi looked overawed.
"Heavens, that's tough, sitting on a plane all that time. I could never do that."
Then our conversation ended, and Mr Shi resumed his three-hour hike down and up a mountain for a haircut.
The price of pork
Everyone is talking animatedly about inflation. Until recently, there had been no significant increase in the prices of consumer goods for many years in China, probably not since the initial market reforms in the 1980s. Inflation is essentially a new concept, and it has happened suddenly. The price of pork, the country's staple meat and a key factor for the restaurant business—which involves half of Moganshan—has doubled since the end of last year. Cooking oil, vegetables and fish have all gone up too. According to the newspapers, inflation in China is about 7 per cent.
Our friends who run local restaurants are remarkably casual about it. "We'll just put our prices up. No problem." Since their customers, and ours too, are the wealthy Chinese middle class and foreigners, they are probably right not to worry. And China, especially the countryside, is still an incredibly cheap place to live, compared to, say, Berkshire.
But people like Mr Shi are not so offhand. His salary does not go a long way, and it now buys half as much pork as it did last year. So he will continue to walk three hours for a haircut to save the cost of a shared taxi, five yuan (30p) each way—up from 20p thanks to the increase in petrol prices. The last time I saw him, he spent the entire conversation talking about the cost of living. His sister gives him an extra 100 yuan (£6) a month, but making ends meet is still difficult. And now he has been told by the local authorities to move his stall from its prime spot. This will surely not be a good year for him. There are millions of Mr Shis in China.
