“Excuse me,” the bloke says with an Aussie drawl at a local watering hole, Big Bamboo, near Jing’an temple, one of Shanghai’s few remaining Buddhist temples. (The building survived the tender mercies of the Mao era because the monks astutely pasted pictures of Chairman Mao across its doors along with heaps of praise for China’s “saviour”.)
“You’re excused”, I say, while the shortish, red-haired Aussie sits next to me at the pub counter.
“I see you in here, sometimes,” he says, a lot of ‘oi’ in his syllables. “You’re South African and when you’re cheering on yer country in the rugby the blokes in that Choinese pub across the street can hear you, ha ha. Well done on the World Cup. So what you taking China for?” he grins at me expectantly.
“What do you mean?” I reply, more or less knowing what he means.
“Oh come on mate, there’s rich pickings here. What’s your kill zone?
I sigh. I’ve summed him up, the braggart, the loud mouth, the “come on mate, the roads in Shanghai are paved with quick-buck opportunities. One point three billion customers mate, what are you waiting for?” and so forth.
“I’m a teacher,” I reply, more or less knowing what the response will be. I knock back the last of a draft glass of soda water and raise a hand to the lovely, long-haired Chinese lass called Serene, who grins and pours another draft glass of soda water. The summers here are wet, warm blankets.
I am right about his reply. His wrinkled bull dog’s face wrinkles further in distaste, the bulbous, beer-fed nose shines more redly. “Oh chrissake mate, I roilly feel sorry for you blokes. You teachers all earn jack-shit. Let me introduce you to some roil opportunities, here’s my card mate, Warwick’s the name and I’m in the import-export business game. We’re about to get into the top ten companies in China …”
“My name’s Rod and you’re making assumptions about what teachers earn,” I say with a smile, taking his card anyway. I’d love to get Prestick (Blu-tack) into China. The market is open on that one here: imagine just every third child with a stick of Prestick in his pencil case. Oh yeah, 1.3 billion customers. Imagine only every tenth child with a stick of Prestick, never mind teachers, office workers …
“Oh come on mate,” Warwick remonstrates, giving me an affectionate pat on the shoulder, “I don’t mean to sound like an arrogant cunt, but –”
“You are,” I reassure him pleasantly, belching lightly as I put my draft glass down again. He blinks in shock at my forthrightness. I am never surprised by my forthrightness. All I know about diplomacy is how to spell the word and that Thabo Mbeki hasn’t figured out that it does not work with regard to Zimbabwe.
“Now there’s no need for that mate, I take it all back. But there’s some real Fortune 500 opportunities out there even though the stock market is going down the tubes, which in itself creates opportunities. Take the slumped property market in Shanghoi … ”
“Look Warwick, I don’t particularly want to talk about business. It’s boring and it’s been a long, hot day.”
He is silent for a moment, toys with his beer, then walks away.
There are loads of Warwicks in Shanghai. The belief is that China is for the taking: the opportunities are simply growing on her willow and plane trees. But what these chancers don’t understand is that the Chinese object to the quick buck schemes rather strongly. They also strongly objected to Britain smuggling opium into China to corrupt and make slaves of her people. They resent, just by the way, the hugely unequal Nanking treaty of 1842 which, in effect, made Chinese people chattels in their own country and Westerners their masters. This “sub-culture” is still largely alive today, most Westerners earning obscene incomes relative to most Chinese. (I am aware that there is a small but growing super-rich Chinese class.)
But back to the Warwicks: the Chinese laugh at them. Some of China’s gorgeous, silky women lead them by the underwear to bedrooms, check they have taken their Viagra and definitely ensure their wallets are thoroughly emptied and squeezed to make sure there’s nothing left. Then you will see Warwick the next day at the pub, bragging about his prowess in bed, “tell you what mate, once they’ve had a Westerner, one of us ‘ lawai’, they never go back to their Chinese boyfriends, ha ha …” He neglects to tell us how he was thoroughly and rightly fleeced, which we know from Serene, who is a friend of his girlfriend for that night. “… Oh by the way mate, can you spare a hundred kwai, gives it you back end of this week?” Kwai is Chinese for RMB — a little stronger than the rand.
The Warwick I am speaking about more or less becomes somewhat friendly acquaintances with me later on. He is part of the whacky, slightly eccentric crowd that used to frequent the Big Bamboo pub (crap beer mate, they don’t know how to clean the pipes) and who migrated to Long Bar (almost as good as anything you’ll find in London, mate). We are a mix of mostly British, Australian, South African, German and American ex-pats. Warwick has the usual reputation of all the Warwicks: always about to see his ship come in, laden with millions of dollars, always bumming money off one of the blokes to see him through that night’s drinking session. Angus moans that he lent Warwick two thousand American dollars a year ago and all he gets back are bloody promises, promises. That’s your fault, I tell Angus.
My turn comes. Looking a little more red-faced than normal, Warwick strolls into the pub one day and asks the bar lady to swipe his card to get money for the night’s session. It is declined. She looks at him, a small smile playing across her face. The other blokes in the pub stiffen. I can see the body language, Warwick durst not ask them for another loan. “Rod, can I borrow a hundred kwai off you? Give’s you it back before the end of the week.” I give it. From arrogant cunt to humble groveller.
A few days later Warwick is back in Long Bar and ensures all the blokes are watching as he makes his magnanimous gesture of returning my hundred bucks. “Here you are mate, I told yer I’m good for it, and any time yer stuck, Rod,” he gives his tortoise-like wink, “you can always come to me”.
Inevitably, a text message comes from Warwick a week later: ‘can you spare us five hundred, it will be repaid at the end of the month’. Good strategy: win my trust, increase the bid, repay it, earn more trust, keep increasing the bid until it’s a huge loan and then head for the hills. I don’t respond.
But on the Prestick thing: I can’t believe it’s not readily available in China, in every kid’s pencil case … but that’s a story for another blog.
I loved this blog!! I am chuckling away at bad old Warwick. Thing is, if you really found a good deal would you share it with anyone? You sure can fool some people some of the time. Hilarious.
Your Australian characature helps make your point I guess….It would be nice if the point could have been made without reverting to South African type by making Australians out to be ignorant, loud mouths. But I guess it makes most of your readers happy…
As i’m sure you are aware Australia has long been engaged with China and both countries have a mature relationship with one aother.
Evidenced recently by our Mandarin speaking Prime Minister speaking out for human rights in Tibet while giving a talk at Beijing University – in Mandarin!
The “Waricks” out there might make you feel good about yourself and what you are doing in China, but please in the future resist from feeding the South African stereotype of Australians. It may surprise you, but we read South African newspapers too!
The British didn’t really smuggle opium into China, they escorted it in with gunboats, and bribed some corrupt Chinese officials.
And have you ever read some of Hemingway’s tales of American chancers in Cuba before the revolution, or lots of other correspondents of the time about Western businessmen and adventurers trying to make money all over the world in the 1920-30s?
My favourite is the Peruvian Rubber merchants and the Tales of Nigeria and Cameroon at the turn of the century, but most of them come from publically unavailable archives.
Your story would fit right in, especially with the bar girl/ prostitue fleecing the businessmen.
Nick – I am not stereotyping Australians. I am talking about one particular individual who happens to be Australian. My caricature (please check in your dictionary to see if you can find your word characature)is the genuine article, people who frequent Long Bar and Big Bamboo would chuckle if they read my blog: they know who he is. I did not “enjoy” caricaturing Warwick, I actually feel sorry for him and those like him. I think he is a very frightened man and owes a lot of money to a lot of people and he is not a youngster. You will probably accuse me of contempt because I feel sorry for him. I like Aussies very much, they are down to earth, there are a lot in Shanghai, or Shanghoi. Going from my one caricature of one individual who happens to be an Aussie to giving me a lecture on Australia-China relationships and even bringing in the Tibet thing is not related to my story and is a bit of a storm in a teacup. I am of Irish descent, love my Irishness – and love jokes about the Irish. The same with South Africa. I have no problem with sending up myself on my South African-ness and laugh when the other blokes in the pub etc make jokes about South Africans or imitate my accent and so forth. And I give it straight back. We’re big boys. Probably blog on those.
Try my attitude some time. Good for the blood pressure.
@Rod
My apologies – I read your blog after a very long week. I did not intend to accuse you of anything, or lecture you – just venting. I live in South Africa, with a South African girl and love the place!
I just get tired of reading and hearing about “Waricks” in South Africa whenever Australians come up…nothing personal.
Anyway, like I said, pay no attention to my earlier post. My blood pressure has lowered and believe it or not, your attitude is generally one I share – you just got me on a bad day.
All the best over there. I spent Chinese New Year in Shanghai this year and loved the place! Hence my interest in your blog. I didn’t make it to the bars you mentioned but started out with a bbq at a place called ‘Kommune’ in Taikang-lu – lots of fun!
Have a good weekend mate!
I wonder what the ignorant, uncouth Aussie whom you’ve described so colourfully for us would have to say about his barfly buddy from South Africa. I’m sure the word “pompous” would be heard, along with a couple of stronger adjectives, and perhaps even a noun or two.
Alisdair
Since you seem to know something about this – where was the opium the gunboats escrted in to Chinese ports coming from? Surely it was not grown in Britain?
More likely he would say:
“Whingeing Pommie Bastard”
Since all those funny accents sound the same to them. As long as you’re not a Kiwi.
Joe – I’d love to know what they think of #$%^ me themselves! I know I am popular and they also like reading my blogs. The blokes objected strongly to a drunken Brit making all kinds of accusations to me about us racist, bigoted South Africans. I will put that anecdote in another blog. Then you can accused me of being pompous when writing about Brits…one of my best friends in Shanghai is a thorough going Englishman, tweed jackets, brollies, fish and chips, the whole nine yards. Great bloke.
By the way, when you caricature someone like Warwick, and do a good job of staying truthful in my portrait of him, if I may say so my %&$#$ self, you risk looking like a sneering, pompus git.
Nick – thats cool. And I am most impressed that your PM took the trouble to learn what is currently one of the most important languages around and stood up in Beijing and spoke to them about human rights in Tibet – in their language. That they will respond more positively to than glory boys standing up with Free Tibet banners at the Olympics, sure their moment of glory but that attitude with the Chinese helps jack squat, your Prime Minister’s respectful, mature approach will help. I will blog on this.
Alisdair, you’re right about smuggling. Poor choice of word. But I knew they just brought in the opium, the Chinese had no choice so why at a subconscious level did I go with smuggle? Because I have never lived under imperial rule where choices were made for me? ie I was never completely choiceless in Apartheid?
Not a great Hemingway fan I am afraid. Will try the Cuban books you mentioned if I can find them in Shanghai. Of course I enjoyed the old man and the sea, though. Local Cuban restaurant shows a big picture of Castro and Hemingway hugging. Hell, I love the Cubans here. Very peaceful, friendly, always give me half price beer when I go to the El Cubano restaurant.Well, if the boss is there.
Rod
Which imperial rule – Chinese or Colonial?
Alisdair
Exactly when was the emperor of China deposed?