Despite the public signs that declare otherwise, China is not a particularly civil society, at least not in the courteous sense. Strangers avoid eye contact except when staring, please and thank you are as often heard as a silent "k," and you're more likely to catch a door in the face than have it held open for you. Altruism, kindness and selfless acts for the general benefit are all considered pointless, verging on the idiotic. China is a "me first" society and the fool can be the hindmost.
It might sound grim, but it isn't so surprising given the long authoritarian history of China and the current scramble for personal benefit in a country deprived of moral guidance. Public behaviour is governed by decree, not reason: signs say "Don't spit" rather than "Spitting spreads germs." Apologists, including Chinese ones, say things like "Authoritarianism is all the Chinese understand. It's best for them/us." But it's hardly confidence inspiring if the Chinese really are about to rule the world.
As someone who has lived here a long time, I find the unrelenting uncouthness depressing. The other day I said to some foreign friends that what I missed in China is "genteelness." I feared they'd laugh, but instead they agreed and one even said, "That's the perfect word!"
Yet a few days ago, I went to pay a local labourer who helped during our recent triathlon. (The triathlon—mentioned in my August column—was won by me thanks to a premature, vengeful ex-smoker's midlife crisis.) The labourer wasn't at home and his wife told me, "One of your friends paid already." I tried to pay her a little extra and she refused. But I insisted she accept a bottle of liquor, which she said she would on his behalf. When the labourer got back from work, he called to thank me and said he wouldn't drink the liquor unless I came for dinner at his house. And I felt the most incredible, heartwarming surge of joy.
You may think this patronising. Please do, by all means. After you.
China highway patrol
Trucks lined the roadside up to and around the blind corner. I counted ten of them. I overtook slowly, nervous that someone would come screaming round the bend and smack into me.
Most of the truck drivers were squatting in the shade, smoking cigarettes. They were rough men, in dirty blue jackets. They weren't local—the number plates of their trucks told me they were from Anhui province (this is Zhejiang). The driver of the lead truck was in his cab, talking into his mobile phone. In front of the trucks were six local farmers on rusty motorbikes.
All of them were staring at a mobile police checkpoint, 200 metres away. It was manned by four policemen, two on each side of the road. One of them was, in turn, staring up the road at the motorbikes and trucks. As I drove past—without being stopped—I noticed the policeman's unnaturally neutral expression.
On the far side of the road block, 200 metres away, there was another gaggle of vehicles strung along the road, again in plain view of the policemen. I pulled over just beyond it and waited.
After ten minutes, the policeman dismantled the checkpoint. As soon as it was down, the truck nearest me started moving, following the others in the impromptu convoy. Then the policemen drove past me, their faces blank. Keeping a respectful distance, but in full view of the police car's rear mirror, came the motorbikes and the Anhui truck drivers.
So what was that all about? Probably a local "strike hard campaign" against illegal vehicles and drivers. The police had been told to set up a checkpoint and book anyone passing through it without the right papers. And they had carried out this task, after a fashion.
The Anhui truck drivers were almost certainly overloaded, and the local farmers don't have motorcycle licences. And they had all just avoided a couple of hundred yuan in fines because when it comes down to it, "strike hard campaigns" are too much hard work.
It's all over, even the shouting
The Moganshan tourist season is now over. The end of the national holiday in October is always a glorious last blast for the businesses on the mountain, including our coffee shop. We were blitzed. Imagine a sunny bank holiday in a quaint village with a single track road, in Devon perhaps, and multiply the cars and crowds by a factor of 20. Now get everyone to lean on their car horns or shout.
The traffic jams were so spectacular that we considered charging people to watch them from our vantage point, right above the centre of the village. And even without issuing tickets for the terrace, we did a roaring trade. There were a couple of road-rage fist fights too, umpired impartially by the police.
And then, as suddenly as it all started, it finished. Everyone has gone: the tourists, the restaurant and hotel staff, and the tour guides with their loudhailers. The silence is shocking. The older locals are emerging like survivors of Armageddon to enjoy the last fine days of the year. The weather is cool and clear. You could even say that October is the best time of the year in Moganshan.
Shame the tourists are missing it.
