China café

The villagers assemble for a health check in the local brothel. The nurse asks me to pull my trousers down and bend over. But she doesn't know I speak Chinese…
July 25, 2008
Bend over for the government

Last week, health inspectors summoned almost the entire village for a check-up. This took place in the karaoke hall of what is called the "Moganshan Grand Hotel," but is in fact the village brothel.

This is not an exposé of a secret Sars epidemic or the Chinese sex industry—sorry. No, it's just because by law, all workers in the food and beverage industry must undergo a health check once a year. Nearly everyone in the village works in a hotel or restaurant. The karaoke hall, being large and centrally located, was the most convenient place. The event was like an indoor village fête, with the stallholders dressed in white uniforms.

After having my blood tested by a nurse in a face mask, I lay across a table under the mirrorball and had my shirt yanked up. A cold stethoscope was placed on my ribs and the watching crowd was treated to a view of my stomach. "Oh look! So white," one of the older cleaning ladies remarked.

At each "station" around the room, the nurses complimented me. "Gosh, you speak Chinese!" they said, surprised at the achievement. The faint praise can be tiresome, but it pays to be polite to officials who are going to give you a certificate.

For the final check, the nurse sat in a VIP room. When the ladies of the house ply their trade, the room is kept dimly lit and private. But now the curtains were open so that the nurse could see her work—as could any passer-by.

"Trousers down, turn around, bend over." The nurse held up a cotton bud on a wooden stick. I was silent. She repeated her request. I remained silent. The stand-off lasted for a couple of long seconds. Then she sighed, "Oh bloody hell. He can't speak Chinese." She waved me on.

It was difficult, but I held back the grin.

Best friends and competitors

Making friends is very easy in China. Sit next to someone on a bus and, after five minutes, they'll say that you are now best buddies. Phone numbers are exchanged, hands are shaken and invitations are forced upon you. You're lucky if you don't get dragged off the bus there and then to take them up.

Mr Zhang was my best friend for five minutes. He and his wife manage the only coffee shop in the nearby town, Wukang. We have a mutual acquaintance in one of the junior officials on the mountain. He brought the Zhangs around to see how my wife Joanna and I operate our coffee shop, which is the only one in the village of Moganshan. Being the only two coffee shops within ten miles of each other actually makes us competitors, I suppose.

I greeted Mr and Mrs Zhang and made them coffee. They needed it, since the junior official had just treated them to a boozy dinner.

Mr Zhang told me that the coffee was rubbish and asked for a beer. "Sit down and drink with me!" Mr Zhang said.

"Just for a few minutes," I replied. "I am rather busy." Joanna was at home, and I was looking after the place on my own. Nonetheless, I brought over a bottle of beer and sat down next to him.

"We should co-operate!" Mr. Zhang slapped me on the back. "Same business. You and me. We're friends!"

"Great idea!" I politely lied to his face.

"Best friends!" he shouted.

After five minutes of much the same, with Zhang's wife echoing him, I made my excuses and then went to serve my customers.

Mr Zhang found me at the bar.

"You're not my best friend any more," he said, with unbelievable childishness. "You won't sit and drink with me." Now he looked angry as well as upset.

His wife was more sober and tried to make amends, with some success. Then, as she and Mr Zhang left, she tried to poach our cleaning lady.

Ten million yuan the poorer

A state-owned company called China Electronic Power Media has just invested 10m yuan (£740,000) in my business. I should be delighted, but in fact, I am quite the opposite.

This is because the business isn't the coffee shop, but the magazine company that the Chinese government pinched off me four years ago (see Prospect, April 2006). I am still fighting for its key asset, the trademark. The decision from the high court in Beijing is long overdue.

I am preparing myself emotionally for the ironic congratulations of some of my friends—the ones who told me how impressed they were that my business hadn't fallen apart as soon as the government nicked it. "You must have set up a damn good operation for it still to be thriving," these friends said back then.

I wonder which of them will be the first to say, "Wow, ten million yuan. Not bad." And then add, with a smile, "Shame they won't be paying you though."

I will smile back, equally ironically, then chase them out of the coffee shop, screaming obscenities, and hurling whatever comes to hand in their general direction. I can only hope that we do not have any guests with small children near the door at the time.

Then we will sit down and watch the sun set across the plain below the mountain top, and laugh.

I might have lost much more than 10m yuan. I might even have lost some of my sanity. But I refuse to let them have my sense of humour.