Lost on Planet China - J. Maarten Troost [71]
CONSTRUCT AN ADVANCED
MANUFACTURING SECTOR
ADHERE TO SCIENTIFIC PRINCIPLES AND BUILD
AN ADVANCED COASTAL ECONOMIC ZONE
TIDING OVER DIFFERENCES TO
ACHIEVE BRILLIANCE
Strange, I thought. I couldn’t decide whether Maoism was truly good and dead in China, or whether these signs represented some mutant variation of it.
The bus stopped near a pier and I joined this elderly quartet of jocularity on board the boat to Putuoshan. It was a jet boat, an odd boat to use for ferrying people over open water that rippled with the wakes of giant containerships. It was sleek and made of metal, and it floated low in the water with a flat bottom that suggested that we wouldn’t slice through the waves as much as fly over them. Unsurprisingly, the attendant on board handed out plastic barf bags, leading to another burst of mirthful joshing among the four travelers. Whatever meds they were on, I wanted some. On the shoreline, there was frenetic building: new factories, office towers, apartments, bridges. Huge containerships were being loaded with shoes, computers, televisions, sweaters, hats, mittens, toys that may or may not have lead, tables, chairs, and everything else.
We zoomed over the water, each ripple sending us into the sky. The water spray was brown. There were hundreds of fishing boats. On a television screen at the front of the boat, there was a short movie about Putuoshan, home of Guanyin, the bodhisattva of compassion, otherwise known as the Goddess of Mercy, and as the DVD turned to traditional music, the grandmas next to me sang along, which I found very endearing. These are fun people, I thought, these oldsters on the boat to Putuoshan. Soulful people. I wanted to hang out with them, have dinner. But I didn’t speak Chinese and they didn’t speak English. I had asked.
It was dusk when we finally arrived on the island. It was raining lightly, so I put on my windbreaker, heaved my pack onto my back, and started walking. Immediately, I had good feelings for Putuoshan. As I walked up a rain-slicked road, the surroundings reminded me of a village in Japan. I have not been to a village in Japan, but had always imagined it might be like this: tidy, orderly houses with happy families cleaning fish, laying out clams in buckets of water, waving kindly to passing strangers.
Now it was growing dark and it was beginning to rain harder. I found my target hotel, and as I didn’t have a reservation, I steeled my mind for the ensuing bargaining, determined to get as close as I possibly could to the mythical, fabled, and ever-elusive Chinese Price.
“No standard room. Only executive suite,” said the assistant manager, who had been called over to deal with the laowai who didn’t plan ahead. Executive suite, I mulled. A bold opening move.
“I have no need for an executive suite,” I explained. “Perhaps you have me confused with Zhengrong Shi,” I said, referring to the richest man in China, who had made billions in solar power. “I am only a traveler. I simply need a roof over my head.”
A standard room could be arranged, possibly. It would be trouble, but perhaps arrangements could be made, solutions found. Another assistant manager had to be called. And now the bargaining began in earnest. The calculator was brought out. We parried. Spectators formed around us.
“Would you accept this price?” I offered.
No, no, no, they said. This was a three-star hotel. See—look. There are our three stars. Your price is a two-star price.
“But I have stayed in official, certified by the People’s Republic of China, four-star hotels for less than that price.”
The crowd murmured. Who was this mysterious laowai?
I had stayed at only one four-star hotel, the Grand Hyatt in the Jin Mao Tower in Shanghai, and as I recalled the grim tally of my bill, I can say quite confidently that it wasn’t a two-star price. But in China, white lies are perfectly acceptable in the game of bargaining.