There’s a truck chassis full of oranges in the middle of the roundabout on the main road in the valley. The truck crashed, and the impact took its wheels clean off. Last week there was another crash, when a truck piled into the sign that said “Slow Down.” That one didn’t make it all the way on to the centre of the island and was obstructing the traffic, so was moved off straight away. The first one is still there. Roundabouts don’t work very well in China. Drivers already on them give way to drivers approaching. This inversion of the norm happens, I assume, because the approaching traffic is moving faster and is therefore more intimidating. Intimidation is a decisive factor in the unofficial Chinese highway code. If you are bigger and faster, you tend to have the right of way, though not always. If you can get there first then Mr Bigger and Faster has to stop—providing he has seen you. And sometimes he doesn’t see you, or the roundabout. There is an official highway code in China, too. It has strict rules, which nobody obeys. That’s why the traffic lights in town have to be supervised by two or three policemen during rush hour, and roundabouts don’t work the way they should. I read in a newspaper that, somewhere in the world, a city has replaced all its traffic lights with roundabouts and congestion has eased. I also read in many newspapers that when the new world order is in place the new world leader will follow the rules, as if self-discipline comes with the title. I think a little more practice with roundabouts might be a good idea first. The Foreign Investor I know a foreigner who wants to lease a rundown villa on the mountain. Initially, he wanted to use it as a weekend getaway from Shanghai. Now he wants to turn it into a youth hostel, believing it can quickly earn back the cost of its restoration. I blame myself for giving him the idea. I’m afraid it isn’t going to work. And I also know the landlord of the villa, so it’s like watching two cars on a collision course with each other (or a roundabout). I did foolishly mention to the foreigner that the villa would make a perfect hostel, and that the resort needs accommodation for backpackers. But I also stressed that it will only work if the administration bureau gives students or backpackers a big discount on the price of the entry ticket to the village. At the moment, genuine backpackers can’t afford the £8 ticket (which buys access to a couple of empty museums and some crowded photo-op viewpoints). But the bureau is highly unlikely to make a concession without being compensated. The landlord, who would by default be a partner in the business, told me the sales target the foreigner has set. He hasn’t got a hope of reaching it, mainly because of the bureau. So the landlord is having second thoughts. The foreigner is pushy and wants to proceed. The story has all the ingredients for a classic China business disaster: crossed purposes, face-saving, government interference, major investment, and one massive deal-breaking problem that no one admits to. I can’t bear to watch. Gone Fishing While one business opportunity goes begging, another has gone fishing. Back in the 1930s, the heyday of the Moganshan summer resort, the swimming pool was the centre of holiday life. It’s been restored at last—but not as a swimming pool. Instead, it has been converted into a fishing pond. As is usual for local renovations, the buildings have been plastered on the outside and tiled on the inside, while white paint has been slapped over the lot and splashed across the surrounding stone walls, trees and paths. The pool has been given a new source of water through an ugly pipe. All the work was carried out in a madcap rush to meet the deadline of the May holiday, which was then missed. The pool is fed by a spring—it does not need more water. It was a perfectly serviceable swimming pool. All it needed was a gentle renovation, a lifeguard and a ticketing system. I used to daydream about taking it over but I don’t do business in China any more, no matter how promising. It isn’t as if there’s no demand. In the summer, visitors constantly ask us where to go for a cool swim. We can only suggest they drive to one of the nearby reservoirs. But when I asked the man in charge why the pond couldn’t be a swimming pool again, he told me “The water’s too cold.”
