China Café

I passed up the chance of a good story this month. I was invited to be arrested by the Chinese navy, and I turned it down.

I was riding my bicycle to join the family for a weekend near Ningbo, a sea port. I was still well inland, on a remote road through the hills, when I passed the gate of a naval barracks. At its second gate, a long way from the first, a line of sailors in crisp white uniforms barred my way.

“Stop please!” one of them shouted. “Our commander wants to speak to you. Inside.” He beckoned through the gate.

“Why?” I said, staying put on the road.

“Because you have ridden past our base and he wants to know what you saw. We’ll compensate you for your time, in cash…”

One of his comrades interrupted him. “Are you Dutch?” he asked me.

He seemed disappointed when I said no. I guessed it was a naval intelligence college and the duty office was on the Dutch language interrogation course. But I didn’t want to be a practice prisoner.

“I don’t have time and this is a public road. You have no authority over it.” I said.

There was a standoff—the sailors had come out on the road, surrounding me.



“You cannot leave,” the senior of them said finally, trying to sound firm.

“Yes, I can.” I gently removed a hand from my shoulder and brushed past another sailor. I felt like a reporter who had “made his excuses and left.” Part of me wanted to accept the intriguing invitation. But I’d probably still be there if I had.

CCTV and me

A friend told me to expect a visit from a documentary-maker from China Central Television (CCTV). Sure enough, one Monday morning I was called by a receptionist at a local hotel, who asked if I would visit Teacher Zhou of CCTV, instead of her hiking uphill to see me in the coffee shop. (All vaguely senior people in media or culture are referred to as “Teacher.”)

Teacher Zhou welcomed me into the best suite in the hotel. She started asking personal questions without any preamble. I asked about the documentary.

“Oh no, I’m a scriptwriter. I’m creating a drama set near here. I heard there was a foreigner and wanted to find out why you are here.” She showed me a pile of books— “I’ve written 41 novels”—then continued with personal questions. I played along for a reasonable time, then made my excuses.

When I got to the coffee shop, a CCTV crew was already there with two actors, one of whom was a moderately pretty girl in a red ballgown. I couldn’t help wondering at how fast things happen in China. Teacher Zhou must have been dictating her script over the phone as I walked back.

But this crew had nothing to do with her. They were making a travel piece. From the economies they made—using the same plastic flowers in every shot, for example—and from the dramatic potential of a girl in a red ballgown drinking coffee in Moganshan—I wouldn’t be surprised if a few scenes make it into Teacher Zhou’s drama.

My big fat Wet Summer

I hear that Britain had a wet summer. Well, we had one too, and as with all China comparisons, ours was bigger than yours.

The rain started on the Chinese equivalent of St Swithin’s day, and kept going for 18 days. The paths and steps became streams and waterfalls, the roads became rivers, and down in the valley, the rivers became raging torrents. Being on a mountain top, Moganshan was in the clouds as well as the rain. If you opened a window the room turned into a 1980s pop video with too much dry ice. Mould sprouted from every conceivable surface. Bathroom towels became wetter and wetter. Computer screens and watch faces fogged over. We forgot what the sun was like.

In mid-August the rains climaxed with Typhoon Morakot. The soggy mountain started collapsing across roads, trees came down and our house, which normally holds up well, leaked like a sieve. I was woken in bed by rain on my forehead. That was a first, and we have had bad typhoons before.

Eventually the storm stopped and we emerged like cave dwellers into the blue skies. Some friends and I rafted down the swollen river on inner tubes. The water was so high it covered the tide wrack of litter that usually lines the banks. The sun was shining on the green-rinsed hills. We imagined that we were in a tropical paradise. A kingfisher darted out of the bank by my head, and for a moment I really was.

Big wet summers do have benefits