Many of the prospering foreigners that you meet in China began working here as humble English-language teachers. It is something of a standing joke. I seem to have got things back-to-front; after 12 years of working in China, I finally became an English teacher.
It was the head of my children's nursery school who had the idea. Nothing too academic, she suggested, just teach the children a few basic words to give them a head start for primary school, for half an hour a week. It'll be fun. There was no pay, but I was happy to help.
The first few lessons went well. Few of the children will ever see a "foreign" foreign-language teacher during their education. But once the novelty wore off and I began to teach my tiny charges—just basic words, as requested—it became difficult. I would say, in Chinese, "Now when I say this, then you say that"—and 20 little voices would wail back at me, in perfect unison, "Now when I say this, then you say that." My attempts to get even the simplest interaction going with the children were met with abject failure. And I was only trying to get them to play games that use simple English words.
The infamous Chinese rote-learning had already begun—in nursery school. I suddenly realised why my daughter Isabel, when I give her more sophisticated English lessons at home, gets angry when I ask, "What sound do you think these letters make?" But she can proudly recite the names of all eight of the Chinese Olympic mascots.
Fencing in Shanghai
The Olympic sport that I follow is a minor one: fencing. I used to be a keen sabreur. For a few years I trained with the British Olympic team, although I was never good enough to be part of it.
I started an amateur fencing club when I lived in Shanghai in the early 2000s, possibly the first the city had seen since 1949. To get back into shape and into the local network, I also went to the Shanghai University of Sport three mornings each week. It was an eye-opener. All the guys did was train, train and train. I became friendly with one of them, Qiang Jun, and said to him: "I wish I could have had this opportunity when I was younger."
"Yes, maybe," Qiang replied. "But you had a life instead."
Qiang helped me with the fencing club. A classified advertisement in an English magazine attracted several ex-international fencers working in Shanghai, and many experienced amateurs. We had a lot of fun, and the club prospered. Now and again, Qiang and I would organise a small tournament, and he would invite alumni of the sports university to boost numbers. They were all ex-fencing professionals and the competitions were fierce.
I asked the ex-pros why they didn't come along to the club during the week, after work, and have some fun like we—the foreign members—did. "You must be kidding," said one. "Fencing was our job. Now we've got a new life—we don't want to go back to the old one. It wasn't fun for us."
Modern China does not do sport for fun. The Chinese take up sport because it provides them with a well-paid career, and it is pursued for national glory, particularly gold medals. So spare a thought for the Chinese Olympians in August. They will have done nothing in their lives so far that was not in preparation for these games.
Pub talk back in Britain
In April I was back in north Norfolk, which is my ancestral toehold in Britain. As usual, I slipped down to my local pub, The Pigs, to catch up with the regulars. One of the few things that I miss about Britain is the conversation at the far end of the bar in The Pigs. The debates can be almost as fierce as a sabre bout and the topics are wide-ranging. When I'm there, the conversation usually turns, at some point, to China.
My drinking partners fall neatly into three typical categories of China-watcher. One is the straightforward type—"Gosh, it must be fascinating living there! Clever you, you'll be one step ahead when China takes over." Another is the pub philosopher, who reads magazines like Prospect, thinks a bit more about the country, and is guaranteed to disagree with whoever else is around just for the sake of an argument. And finally there is the local entrepreneur, who is in the market for work coveralls, bamboo furniture, plastic piping—you name it. This last time it was pianos. "There must be a factory near you…" he started, and went on. As I swayed towards the door at the end of this visit, he shouted at my back: "I'll be in touch, and tell me if you see anything you reckon I could shift!"
There is no shortage of opinions about China. But it is my entrepreneur friend who probably has the closest measure of the country. "Buy now, cheap, whatever you can find and have a market for," he said. "Make cash, not a point. Who gives a toss about politics, human rights, monks? China is an opportunity to make money. When it ceases to be that, I'll go somewhere else."
I can't really argue with that. I wonder if he knows how Chinese he sounds.
