“A
man who said he woke up in a local hotel to find his left kidney had been
removed is now recovering in Machong People’s Hospital in the southern Pearl
River Delta city.”
--China Daily, February 28, 2012
Thus began the
article I was reading as my Air China flight approached Beijing International
Airport. It explained that a Mr.
Shu from the Southwest China municipality of Chongqing had reported feeling a
stomachache and finding 20,000 yuan ($3,200) in his pockets upon awakening in a
small hotel. He took a taxi to the
hospital after finding a wound in his abdomen. “Doctors were shocked to discover that Shu’s kidney had been
removed and they immediately notified the police.”
I, too, was
shocked—by the similarity of Mr. Shu’s story to an urban legend that has been
circulating in the United States for more than 20 years. According to the legend, a traveler in
a city far from home accepts a drink from a stranger in a hotel bar, and wakes
up hours later in a bathtub full of ice, one kidney short of a pair. Notwithstanding the persistence of this
story, there is no evidence that it ever really happened. http://www.snopes.com/horrors/robbery/kidney.asp
Not
surprisingly, China Daily reported
that Mr. Shu’s story was greeted with skepticism: “Insiders said Shu might have sold his left kidney after
failing to find a job in the city.”
His father was quoted as saying:
“My son just told me he wanted to leave home for Guangdong to seek job
opportunities, but he never said or hinted that he wanted to sell his kidney.”
I landed in Beijing
feeling confident that I would probably return home with both my kidneys,
unless I found it necessary to sell one.
The flight attendant had confirmed that I did not have to fill out the
arrival card and clear immigration customs, since I was going to be boarding a
connecting flight to Bangkok. So
all I had to do is get to my departure gate and find a cup of coffee to keep me
awake for the three hours until the Bangkok flight.
The terminal was
vast and seemed to be virtually empty.
I followed the arrows for transferring passengers, and eventually came
to a security check I had to clear, even though I was already in a secure
area. This proved to be very
simple, compared to the security checks in American airports I had endured in
the past ten years—no removing of shoes and belt, no body scan. Then it was a
long walk to the departure gate, and I was seeing a dearth of vendors. Finally, as I neared the gate, I saw
that sign known throughout the world:
Starbucks. Not seeing any
nearby alternative, I decided to suspend my boycott and ordered a “venti.” I grabbed one of the handful of tables
and nursed my coffee while listening to recorded American jazz standards until
boarding time.
After two lazy weeks
in Thailand, I caught an early morning flight from Bangkok to Guangzhou. Although the flight was only two
and a half hours, it included a full meal, as had even shorter domestic flights
in Thailand. Since my connecting
flight was a domestic one, this time I did have to clear immigration and
customs. Doing that, getting to
the domestic departure area, and again going through security consumed most of
the two-hour layover. This was
followed by an uneventful 80-minute flight to Nanning.
Nanning may be
one of the biggest cities you’ve never heard of. The capital of the Guangxi Zhuang Autonomous Region, it is
home to 2.5 million people, with another four million in the surrounding
area. My initial impression was
not overwhelmingly favorable. The
whole area was shrouded in something resembling California tule fog, and would
remain so for most of the week I spent there. The drive from the airport quickly proceeded from semi-rural
greenery to suburban sprawl. The
architecture was uninspired post-World War II Asian utilitarian, not so
different from what one sees around Bangkok.
Things began to
look better as we entered the downtown area along the Yong River. I checked in at the Yongjiang Hotel,
which is considered five-star in China, but gets only four stars on western
websites. I found it an excellent
value—for a little more than $60 a night, I got a spacious, comfortable room
with a view of the river.
Once I was
settled, my friend Ling took me to a nearby narrow side street lined on both
sides with food stalls and hole-in-the wall restaurants. We found a table at one of these
establishments. Ling ordered, and
soon the table was covered with an array of dishes—fish, chicken, noodles,
vegetables, etc. They bore little
resemblance to the Chinese food most Americans would be familiar with. I won’t say they were better, but
definitely more authentic. Here I
also found the first evidence that the use of napkins has not caught on in
Nanning. The stains on my shirts
are not only souvenirs of my trip, but incriminating evidence of my lack of
finesse with chopsticks.
The next morning
(Wednesday), after a breakfast of noodles on the same street, we walked at
least a mile to the Guangxi Provincial Museum. This proved to be a reminder of the challenges of being a
pedestrian in Asian cities.
Intersections are chaotic swirls of buses, trucks, cars, motorcycles,
tuk-tuks, bicycles—and pedestrians.
On my first trip to China in 2001, I observed that traffic lights and
stop signs were non-existent in many places. In Nanning today, there are lights at the major
intersections, and some of them have separate signals for bicycles as well as
pedestrians. The signals, though,
are not always obeyed. Although
the major intersections have crosswalks, they are not the safe harbors an
American expects, and one has to be constantly alert. Somehow, though, everyone gets into the rhythm and avoids
collisions.
At the museum,
we viewed fine collections of porcelain, ceramics, bronze, and various
prehistoric artifacts. After this
immersion in southern Chinese history, we ventured back out into the modern
metropolis. Ling took me to an
upscale department store featuring Italian designer clothes, as well as more
modestly priced attire of Chinese origin.
Although she didn’t know it, Ling was following the lead of Bob, my farang host in Thailand, who was eager
to show me the advanced state of consumerism in Chiang Mai. In both cases, it was quickly apparent
that in this global economy, most of the same stuff is for sale anywhere you
go. The other striking thing is
the number of sales people standing around in the big Asian stores, always
ready to assist a potential customer.
In the U.S., no store could afford to employ that many people, and I
have to think the difference has to do with low wages.
We escaped the
department store without buying anything and took a bus in the direction of the
hotel, the first of numerous bus trips I was to take in the days to come. Nanning buses are pretty much the same
as city buses everywhere. They are
often crowded, but cheap at about 15 cents a ride. On the other hand, they don’t have passes or transfers, so
you have to pay on each bus you board.
But they do have wastebaskets, which struck me as a very good idea.
We got off the
bus near Wanda Plaza, a couple of blocks from the hotel. Wanda Plaza is a retail development
whose upper floors are occupied by Walmart. The first floor houses various small clothing and specialty
stores, and on a subsequent visit I came upon a cosmetics booth blaring Lady
Gaga’s “Bad Romance.” But on this
occasion, lunch was on the agenda, and we walked to the adjoining development,
Parkson Plaza, which offers various food options, including McDonalds and Pizza
Hut. We chose the latter.
This Pizza Hut
is unlike any you are likely to find in the United States. It’s a full service restaurant with a
wine and beer list, with seating upstairs and down. The multi-page menu lists numerous entrees, in addition to
some distinctly Chinese pizzas.
Although they offer pepperoni, seafood topping like fried tilapia and
octopus seem to be more popular.
The one we ordered came with sausage, mushrooms, and corn—and a crust
containing a ring of turret-like pockets stuffed with shrimp. The sound system was playing a pleasing
mix of sixties bosa nova, followed by oldies like “Stranger on the Shore” by
Acker Bilk. The place is extremely
popular, especially with students and families, and on Friday night there was a
long line out the door.
On Thursday, we
took a bus a several miles to South Lake Park, a beautiful expanse of greenery
that stretches for two kilometers.
We walked paths through tropical foliage, and along the large lake. Overlooking the park is Nanning’s
financial district, a collection of gleaming office and residential
towers. The local Communist Party
occupies one building with a prime view of the lake.
It was in this
part of town that I noticed the local Porsche dealership, called “Beauty
Motors” or some such thing.
Mercedes, BMWs and Audis could also be seen on the streets. According to Ling, they cost twice as
much in China as in Germany. It
seems clear that the German cars, like the Italian clothes, are prized status
symbols of the Chinese 1%.
We had another
late lunch at an enormous restaurant that served tasty food. But to me, the most memorable aspect of
it was the men’s chorus, comprised of restaurant employees, that was rehearsing
in the back of the room. They ran
through one long and rousing ditty several times, and I asked Ling if it was a
popular song. She smiled and said,
“No, it’s a revolution song.”
Ling had to work
on Friday, and after breakfast I lounged around in the hotel lobby, reading and
searching for an Internet connection.
The piped-in music featured a familiar tune—a lovely string rendition of
“Amazing Grace.” A few minutes
later, a Chinese fellow approached me with a pamphlet in Chinese, with an image
of a cross on the front.
On Saturday
afternoon, we took the No. 10 bus to the end of the line in the suburbs, where
there is a large hillside park. We
took a tram to the top, where there was a big, elaborate Buddhist temple. Throngs of worshipers were there,
lighting incense and praying at each stop. It was here that I saw a teenage Chinese girl in an American
flag tee shirt, and another kid wearing a Union Jack shirt. We walked down the hill, stopping at a
peach grove where we joined more throngs photographing each other in front of
the blooming peach trees. At the
bottom of the hill was another, much smaller Buddhist temple. This one had a much different look, as
it was in the classic Thai style.
With no other explanation, I assume it to be evidence of a local Thai
community.
Monday evening,
after another walk in South Lake Park, we had dinner in a restaurant that
specialized in the cuisine of a region near Shanghai. I didn’t much care for the food—chunks of chicken that were
mostly bone, and things like that.
But, once again, we had musical accompaniment, a duo performing folk
music of the region—perhaps the worst folk music I have ever heard. The man played a Chinese banjo, the
woman a mandolin. She sang in a
screeching voice that sounded like an animal being tortured. Ling was quick to admit that she didn’t
like it, so I felt no need to pretend that I did. After a while, the guy surprised me by playing a sample of
“Red River Valley” on his banjo.
It may have been for my benefit, since I was the only Westerner in the
mostly empty room. Or maybe “Red
River Valley” is another revolution song in China.
After a week in
Nanning, my impression was of a culture that is becoming more Western with
modernization. The Chinese,
especially the younger generations, clearly find much of American and European
culture appealing, especially consumer goods and music. The result is a frequent feeling of
familiarity in an unfamiliar setting.
China has become Westernized and corporatized, but with a distinctly
Chinese twist—like those weird pizzas.
But while it is
clear that the standard of living in China has vastly improved in recent years,
income inequality is also apparent in this thoroughly capitalist state run by
the Communist Party. While the
elite tool around in their German cars, many middle class Chinese have no cars
and rely on buses and bicycles for transportation. It may be that the pressures of this inequality led poor Mr.
Shu to sell his kidney.
On Tuesday, I
caught a late afternoon flight to Shanghai’s Hongqiao Airport. Departure was delayed, and we touched
down about 8:00. I collected my
bag and made my way outside to a long taxi queue, and prepared to wait. I was amazed by the efficiency of the
system—seemingly hundreds of taxis topped with bright emerald lights were lined
up six abreast, and I found myself in one of them and on my way within five
minutes.
On my the last
night of my first visit to Shanghai in the summer of 2001, I had ventured out
alone and taken the Metro across town to the Peace Hotel to hear their venerable
jazz band. It was a memorable
experience. For a modest fee, you
could request standards from a printed song list with somewhat mangled
translations. Thus, Tony Bennett’s
signature song was rendered “My Heart Left San Francisco.” I was on a budget, so I bided my time,
and eventually someone else requested it.
This time, I
stayed at the Bund Hotel, which is fairly close to what’s now known as the
Fairmont Peace Hotel. I had
thought about paying a return visit.
But it was cold outside, it was getting late by the time I checked in,
and the next day was going to be a very long one. So I decided to stay in, raid the mini-bar—a luxury the
Yongjiang didn’t provide—and call it a night.
The next day (Wednesday)
I awoke in time to see CNN call the Illinois primary and hear the latest
iteration of Willard Mitt Romney’s victory gibberish. After partaking of the hotel’s buffet breakfast and packing,
I had a decision to make: I could
walk a few blocks in one direction and pay a return visit to the excellent Shanghai
Museum, or I could take a longer walk in the other direction for some
sight-seeing.
I opted for the
latter and walked down Nanjing Road about 12 blocks to the Bund, the riverfront
boulevard lined with stately early 20th Century European buildings looking
out on the futuristic skyscrapers of Pudong across the river. I walked along the elevated promenade,
watching the cruise ships and coal barges on the river, and was reminded
vaguely of past strolls along San Francisco’s Embarcadero.
Then I did the
most touristy thing of my entire trip:
I bought a combination ticket for the Tourist Tunnel to Pudong and the
observation deck of the 87-story Jingmao Tower. The Tourist Tunnel amounts to a slow-moving subway with a
goofy light show, but view from the tower is spectacular. Both are over-priced. Next time I will take the Metro to
Pudong, and look for a less expensive place to take in the view.
I walked back to
the hotel, where I had an over-priced pint of Carlsberg in the bar before heading
for Pudong International Airport for the flight home. The cabbie drove like a maniac, and got me there three
and a half hours before the scheduled 8:25 departure, so I spent some time
reviewing the photos I’d taken that afternoon.
My previous trip
home from Shanghai had been on the longest day of my life, September 11,
2001. Twenty minutes before our
scheduled landing at SFO, the pilot announced, without further explanation,
that the airport was closed and we would be landing in Vancouver. It wasn’t until we were on Canadian
soil that we learned the awful reason for the diversion, and two more days
passed before I was able to get home.
Fortunately,
this flight was uneventful except for a little turbulence. Still, that Wednesday was 37 hours
long. I finally arrived home at
about 8:00 pm, exhausted but not ready to sleep. I decided to spend a little time editing my photos. To my utter dismay, the camera I had
borrowed from my sister was missing from my backpack. My theory is that I lost it at some point in Pudong Airport,
but lost and found reports filed with the airport and the airline haven’t borne
fruit. So now I owe my sister a
new camera, and my precious photos of the trip are gone forever.
But at least I
still have both my kidneys.
