The Moganshan housing market
My search for a manager for the coffee shop (see China Café, April) was successful. Emily is half Chinese, half American and a pastry chef to boot. She was in place in April, trained up for the May holiday and is now running the place with confidence. Her American boyfriend Dan moved to the mountain with her and organises bike tours and hikes. His clients meet at the Lodge and he helps out at the bar when things get busy. So we're all happy.
The trickiest part was finding a place for Emily and Dan to live. They are the first foreign workers to arrive in the village in a long time. Local workers, from the valley and nearby town, live in squats: derelict villas with broken windows, outdoor taps (if they're lucky) and leaking roofs. They sleep four or five to a room and have no living space. I can't ask my staff to live like that.
After failing to find somewhere myself, I went to the property department of the administration bureau. That might sound obvious, but you should be careful of taking the obvious route through Chinese bureaucracy. I was not disappointed.
"I need a place for my staff to live, can you help?" I asked.
"No. Sorry."
"But there are many vacant villas and rooms in the village, and you are in charge of them right?"
"We can't rent those out. It's against the rules."
"But…"
"You might be able to come to a private arrangement with the people who have those places and don't use them, but there can be no money changing hands. Understand?"
"I understand," I said.
"How much can you pay? Maybe we can put you in touch."
The perils of putting off DIY
My wife Joanna has had the painters in. I was away at the time. I had been planning to do the job myself. I bought expensive, high-quality imported emulsion from our nearest B&Q store. I dug out the dust sheets I used for my last DIY effort. I found the sanding machine and sandpaper. I was all set—but then I kept putting the job off. Not that I wasn't looking forward to it, but things kept coming up, and the weather wasn't right, and so on.
In my absence Mr Zhang, the local decorator, handyman and house builder, did a thorough job. The inside walls of the house and the wooden shutters on the outside are coated with cheap, powdery white, all-purpose paint. So is the stonework that surrounds the shutters, and our timber staircase, and the path around the house, and a nearby tree. So also is the terrace floor, selected saucepans, the fridge (but that was white anyway) and various other items. For good measure, our black labrador retriever mix, Charlie, is no longer entirely black. Labour in China is cheap and quick, but that is because quality is not important. And you can forget about attention to detail.
Joanna had wanted to surprise me. I let slip that I had been looking forward to painting, and then—with crass idiocy—told her why. If there had been any paint left, I'd be covered in it too.
Hail to the Chief
It was a busy weekend so I was helping out in the coffee shop kitchen. The front of house is well taken care of by Emily, but we are still looking for sous chefs. There were 30 guests, who by the sound of it were enjoying our simple, no-choice menu. The chaos of the final course was just beginning. (With a nod to the traditions of the hospitality business, we do allow people to choose from a small selection of puddings.) The kitchen was as hot and topsy-turvy as the apple crumble and I was in the thick of it.
From outside the kitchen, someone shouted that the county chief (a position that is somewhere between a council leader and a local MP) was here and wanted to have a drink with me.
I shouted back to tell him politely that he'd have to wait.
But the county chief walked into the kitchen, with his entourage of about a dozen, and wanted to shake my hand. The chief was a pleasant man in his mid forties. His entourage kept repeating "The county chief! The county chief!" as if they were acting out the shoe scene from The Life of Brian.
I ushered the chief out with a large spoon and he ended up slap bang in the middle of the doorway from the kitchen to the restaurant, still surrounded by his entourage. After a gentle shove he moved to the bar and watched us work like slaves.
Finally I had a chance to stop and have a chat. All I wanted was a stiff drink. The chief was a pleasant man and effusive in his praise for the Lodge. He apologised for not having his business card on him and for surprising us. Next time, he promised, he would tell us he was coming and we'd have a proper meeting. One of his sidekicks promised to pick up the tab later for the beers the entourage had drunk and the chief took his leave.
Later that evening I was talking on the telephone to a neighbour about something else entirely.
"Just had the county chief causing havoc. Nice person though," I happened to mention.
"She is, isn't she?" My neighbour replied.
My search for a manager for the coffee shop (see China Café, April) was successful. Emily is half Chinese, half American and a pastry chef to boot. She was in place in April, trained up for the May holiday and is now running the place with confidence. Her American boyfriend Dan moved to the mountain with her and organises bike tours and hikes. His clients meet at the Lodge and he helps out at the bar when things get busy. So we're all happy.
The trickiest part was finding a place for Emily and Dan to live. They are the first foreign workers to arrive in the village in a long time. Local workers, from the valley and nearby town, live in squats: derelict villas with broken windows, outdoor taps (if they're lucky) and leaking roofs. They sleep four or five to a room and have no living space. I can't ask my staff to live like that.
After failing to find somewhere myself, I went to the property department of the administration bureau. That might sound obvious, but you should be careful of taking the obvious route through Chinese bureaucracy. I was not disappointed.
"I need a place for my staff to live, can you help?" I asked.
"No. Sorry."
"But there are many vacant villas and rooms in the village, and you are in charge of them right?"
"We can't rent those out. It's against the rules."
"But…"
"You might be able to come to a private arrangement with the people who have those places and don't use them, but there can be no money changing hands. Understand?"
"I understand," I said.
"How much can you pay? Maybe we can put you in touch."
The perils of putting off DIY
My wife Joanna has had the painters in. I was away at the time. I had been planning to do the job myself. I bought expensive, high-quality imported emulsion from our nearest B&Q store. I dug out the dust sheets I used for my last DIY effort. I found the sanding machine and sandpaper. I was all set—but then I kept putting the job off. Not that I wasn't looking forward to it, but things kept coming up, and the weather wasn't right, and so on.
In my absence Mr Zhang, the local decorator, handyman and house builder, did a thorough job. The inside walls of the house and the wooden shutters on the outside are coated with cheap, powdery white, all-purpose paint. So is the stonework that surrounds the shutters, and our timber staircase, and the path around the house, and a nearby tree. So also is the terrace floor, selected saucepans, the fridge (but that was white anyway) and various other items. For good measure, our black labrador retriever mix, Charlie, is no longer entirely black. Labour in China is cheap and quick, but that is because quality is not important. And you can forget about attention to detail.
Joanna had wanted to surprise me. I let slip that I had been looking forward to painting, and then—with crass idiocy—told her why. If there had been any paint left, I'd be covered in it too.
Hail to the Chief
It was a busy weekend so I was helping out in the coffee shop kitchen. The front of house is well taken care of by Emily, but we are still looking for sous chefs. There were 30 guests, who by the sound of it were enjoying our simple, no-choice menu. The chaos of the final course was just beginning. (With a nod to the traditions of the hospitality business, we do allow people to choose from a small selection of puddings.) The kitchen was as hot and topsy-turvy as the apple crumble and I was in the thick of it.
From outside the kitchen, someone shouted that the county chief (a position that is somewhere between a council leader and a local MP) was here and wanted to have a drink with me.
I shouted back to tell him politely that he'd have to wait.
But the county chief walked into the kitchen, with his entourage of about a dozen, and wanted to shake my hand. The chief was a pleasant man in his mid forties. His entourage kept repeating "The county chief! The county chief!" as if they were acting out the shoe scene from The Life of Brian.
I ushered the chief out with a large spoon and he ended up slap bang in the middle of the doorway from the kitchen to the restaurant, still surrounded by his entourage. After a gentle shove he moved to the bar and watched us work like slaves.
Finally I had a chance to stop and have a chat. All I wanted was a stiff drink. The chief was a pleasant man and effusive in his praise for the Lodge. He apologised for not having his business card on him and for surprising us. Next time, he promised, he would tell us he was coming and we'd have a proper meeting. One of his sidekicks promised to pick up the tab later for the beers the entourage had drunk and the chief took his leave.
Later that evening I was talking on the telephone to a neighbour about something else entirely.
"Just had the county chief causing havoc. Nice person though," I happened to mention.
"She is, isn't she?" My neighbour replied.
