China café

Something big almost happened. It would have changed Moganshan, possibly for the worse, more likely for the better. Control of the area was nearly passed from the Zhejiang provincial government to the county officials based in Wukang, our local town.

From 1949, the provincial government has treated Moganshan as a retreat for party officials, with hoi polloi increasingly allowed to enjoy the place. It is rare now that the roads are sealed off and hotels closed to the public for a top official. But despite large numbers of tourists, the village is locked up tight. Buying property is impossible and renting it is difficult. Hence there is no development. Many beautiful villas are quietly rotting away. It costs several million yuan a year to run the resort.

If the county government took over, they would probably still not allow the sale of property, but they would try to stop the losses. Managed well, Moganshan could be very profitable. It could be the Chamonix of China, as I tell the locals, who have no idea what I am talking about.



So why didn’t the handover happen? I heard that the deal was all but done when someone had the idea to ask the previous party secretary of the province—who is in line for the top job in Beijing—what he thought. Of course, they didn’t explain the background. I suspect he was simply asked “What do you think of Moganshan?”

“It’s a nice place,” he apparently said. And the message came back down the chain of command: “Don’t do anything to Moganshan. He says it’s fine just as it is.”

On the buses

One way the provincial government could claw back some of the money they lose on Moganshan would be to manage their own transport. The government employees who work on the mountain are ferried every day from Wukang, where they live, in three 20-seater buses. The buses belong to the government but it does not run them. Nor does it benefit from the moonlighting the drivers do during the day, transporting visitors for cash. All of that goes to Mr Zhang, who has the concession to manage the small fleet. The government pays him—not the other way round—about £6,000 a year. Mr Zhang has to pay salaries to the drivers, insurance, road tax and all other costs. But he gets money from the workers, who have to pay to travel on their own buses.

Local bus operators try to muscle in during the tourist season. This summer there was a fistfight in the village square, after which the local operators disappeared. Mr Zhang’s crew lost the fight, but the government helps him see off any competition.

Mr Zhang claims that he struggles to break even. The government believes him. When he comes to the coffee shop he tells me, with a wicked smile, a different story.

Those infernal work visas

Last week I was summoned to the police station and told to bring Dan, the boyfriend of our coffee shop manager, Emily. Apparently there was a problem with his visa. We checked in advance that only Dan had a problem. He and Emily have the same type of visa, which forbids employment. Work visas are almost impossible to acquire, especially from a local bureau that has never issued one. I have tried.

Dan has been providing a useful service helping non-Chinese speaking foreigners find hotel rooms and book hikes and bicycle rides. He does not get paid but he will accept tips. This is of great help to both the coffee shop and Emily. We used to be a non-profit booking and info centre and it drove me to distraction. I have taken to calling Dan “the Man on the Shan.”

The police gently ticked us off, and told Dan to go easy on the outdoor activities so that visitors remain safe (the main reason they come here is to hike and bike). But we established that Dan does not actually work on the mountain, he only helps.

“Then Emily must get a work visa,” the policeman said—in direct contradiction to what we had been assured earlier on.

I quizzed Dan on the way back to the coffee shop. Who might we have upset: the government travel agency, a state-owned hotel that wasn’t getting enough bookings from him, or had one of his guests annoyed someone? It could be anything. The policeman certainly wasn’t going to tell us.

Then I had a crazy thought: maybe it’s something I’ve written in this column.

Next month watch out for a rosy account of my delightful experience with the helpful work visa bureau.