Everything About China Is Terrible

John MacNab
John MacNab teaches at a university in Hong Kong.

Every time I am invited to China my heart lifts. Within 24 hours of arriving, I have usually hit rock-bottom. By the time my visit is over, I am only too glad to be boarding the plane for Hong Kong and on to the UK. If you want a ‘full fat’ experience of China, try visiting as a keynote speaker at a conference. On arrival at the airport there will, inevitably, be a male driver bearing a card with ‘MacNab’ written on it. He will, almost invariably, be accompanied by a female Master’s student.

The reception committee

On my recent arrival in Beijing this was exactly the pattern. A young lady approached me with an enormous bunch of flowers and thrust these at me, simultaneously relieving me of my wheeled case with small rucksack attached to the handle. I hate to let my belongings out of my sight for a moment. The rucksack contained my wallet, phone and passport.

“Wercome to China. Your first time?” I tell her: “No it’s not my first time, nor is it my first time in Beijing. In fact, it is not even my first visit to your university. I came a few years ago.” She is about a foot shorter than me and my stream of English has clearly, both literally and metaphorically, gone right over her head.

I hand back the flowers to her, insisting that she carry them and that I remain in charge of my case. She is equally insistent, even getting into a tussle with me: I lose and end up carrying the bunch of flowers. Thus, a six-foot white-haired yang guizi (foreign devil) was spotted walking through Beijing Capital airport Terminal 3 towards the parking lots carrying an enormous bunch of flowers. I felt like Shirley Bassey at a lifetime awards event. But the fun was only beginning.

The great Chinese standoff

As custom dictates, the guest walks in front with the helper and driver close behind. This is all very well if the guest knows where he is going. I don’t, and a stand-off ensues with the student repeating “please” and refusing my invitation to proceed in front of me. Explaining that I do not know where I am going is futile. She takes a step slightly to the front, and beside me, indicates vaguely with her hand where I should go. But when I take a step, she retreats behind me. This process continues all the way to the lifts. I am still holding the flowers.

Our car is located and the driver goes to drive it from its parking space. In China it is compulsory to reverse park to avoid reversing out into traffic. This seems sensible except when accessing the boot is required as the car must first be moved out into the traffic, holding everyone up with much horn honking, until you are loaded up.

My efforts to keep my rucksack with me in the car fail. I grab my bag, holding the bunch of flowers in one arm like a new girlfriend, but it is forcefully snatched back from me, placed in the boot and the cover slammed firmly shut. I am shown the back seat of the car, the door being held open by the student, and that is duly closed. The student sits in the front. I pull the seat belt across my body but then note that there is no socket into which I can slot the buckle.

“No need,” says the student, “it is not the law here.” I agree, telling her it may not be the law, but that does not change the laws of physics. Silence reigns until she turns to ask, “Did you bring your wife with you to China?” She either assumes I am married or something about my downtrodden demeanour gives it away. “If I have, she has gotten lost,” I say. But I know that she means ‘have I ever brought my wife to China’. “Yes,” I reply, “but she hates the place and does not want to come back.” Another stream of English goes right over her head. When these student helpers ask you a question, they are rarely interested in the response, they have just been told to make conversation.

You are here to be helped

Arriving at my hotel I realise it is pointless trying to retrieve my belongings from the boot. I insist and manage to present my passport by myself to the receptionist, despite the student asking me for it to show to her. This is almost universal in China, but I always refuse to comply. If you accept all the help you are offered in China, you will soon become utterly helpless.

Finding your room by yourself is out of the question. Your helper will always accompany you in the lift, into the room and rarely leaves without having a good snoop around. At last, I could put down the bloody flowers. There follow a few awkward moments before the helper departs, seemingly unaware that I was groggy with jetlag and bursting for a pee.

I proceed to pee and there is a gentle knock on the door. As a 70-year-old man with a prostate the size of a melon, a ‘quick pee’ is out of the question. The knocking persists despite shouting that I am coming. I never know if these helpers can hear or translate my “for fuck’s sake” but it is, of course, her at the door back to ask whether I am hungry. I can order dinner in my room, she informs me. I have already told her that they served dinner in business class, but that information must also have dissipated into the ether. Also, for the Chinese, missing an opportunity to stuff your face is almost out of the question. I finally persuade her that I am not having dinner and that she should leave. She does.

Another gentle ‘tap tap’ at the door and, lo and behold, she is back. This time it is to ask me what time I would like to be picked up in the morning. In China, this is a trick question: it is only the semblance of choice, because the driver will already have been told what time to come. “Do I have a choice then?” Silence. “At what time does the conference start?” The silence is only broken when she says, “Driver will come at 7:30.” This time she does not come back and I collapse into bed, fall into a deep sleep and waken an hour later only to remain awake for most of the night.

Breakfast of champions

Next day, far from ready to get up, I shower, shave and head to the restaurant for breakfast. It is only 6:30am. The hotel is far from full, and the usual buffet breakfast is suspended. I am shown a card with four choices: two Chinese and two Western breakfasts. Without reading in much detail, I select one of the Western ones. A plate arrives with enough food to feed an average sized family. I pick two items and, embarrassed to do so, leave the rest. I fetch a coffee from the machine, but it proves to be undrinkable, and I return to my room. The next day, in the hope of a moderately proportioned plate of food, I order one of the Chinese breakfasts. To my consternation it is even bigger.

Protocol before progress

I go to the lobby to meet my driver in good time only to find my student helper there already. This is not uncommon. The usual rigmarole is observed in getting me to and into the car. We arrive at the campus and the process of “please” and “I don’t know where I am going” is repeated. This time, I express my annoyance as I genuinely have no idea in which direction to head but the ridiculous dance proceeds all the way over the campus to the conference hall.

However, as irritating as the ritual is, I know if a member of staff sees her walking in front of me that she is in for the biggest bollocking of her life. I once picked up a carrier bag belonging to a student helper while she used the toilet and carried it for a few steps while she dried her hands with a tissue. This was reported to a lecturer by one of the other students, my helper was reprimanded and I never saw her again.

The front row of doom

We arrive at the conference hall and, while I would be happy sitting discretely at the back, I am taken – as per protocol – to the front row and shown my seat behind a desk covered with a fitted cloth with my moniker on a triangular name tent. The conference dignitaries enter with their way being indicated by a line of student helpers. As each one is called to the stage, a student helper shows them the way, as if they cannot see where the steps to the stage are. There is absolutely no show without Punch in China. Proceedings begin – late – and someone on the stage introduces all the dignitaries followed by the keynote speakers.

I recognise what sounds like my name and, as the other speakers have done, I try to stand up and face the audience. The chair weighs a ton and seems fixed to the floor, I find it hard to get my Western knees from under the low desk, my shoe gets caught in the desk cover which hangs down in front of me. I nearly topple and fall on top of the person seated immediately behind me. I sit down, flustered and for the second time that day, embarrassed.

The session ends and, before the conference can proceed, we traipse outside into the blazing sun and humidity for the compulsory group photograph. This takes ages, the conference timetable is slipping badly, and we eventually start the main proceedings an hour late. I see my vision of an early finish and a cold beer receding.

Death by PowerPoint

The day consists of an untranslated torrent of breathless Putonghua gushing forth from a stream of speakers, all of whom go way over time, before it is time for my presentation. I take to the stage two hours behind schedule but, unlike all the previous speakers, my PowerPoints® are not on the desktop. I sent them in advance, as requested, but they had not reached the technicians. Luckily, I have them on a USB which, when I present it, is whipped from my hand and inserted into the PC. My efforts to approach the PC are thwarted by the technicians who seem to multiply by the second. There is a problem opening my USB and it seems that many hands will make USB work.

Once opened I am still obstructed even though, of the many PowerPoints on the USB, they will have no idea which one I am using. Eventually I am invited, with a disparaging expression on a technician’s face, to show him which one to open. Any hope I had of simply dragging it to the desktop myself are thwarted as the chap keeps an iron grip on the mouse.

I get started and it soon dawns on me that, despite assurances I could speak in English and that it would be understood, that nobody has the foggiest clue what I am saying. In any case, the ones who are not on their mobile phone are fast asleep. I plough on, taking pride in ending within the allotted time. Polite applause follows – waking up some of the sleepers – and the next speaker is being introduced before I return to my seat.

The long goodbye

Fighting jetlag, I summon my helper and, to her credit, she rescues me by summoning the driver and having me returned to my hotel. Before she departs, she asks me what time my flight is in the morning. This is another of those Chinese trick questions which one should never answer directly. If your flight is at 11am and you let them know, you will be delivered with ‘prenty of time’ to the airport 30 minutes before your flight is due to leave.

The concept of getting there early (“what you do at airport?”) and visiting the business lounge for some food and a sneaky snifter before strolling leisurely to your flight is beyond them. So, I lie through my teeth and give her a time about four hours in advance of my flight.

I am duly picked up at the time of my choosing, much to my relief. But I note two huge carrier bags in the back seat of the car. One contains enough food to feed Chairman Mao’s Long March and the other an enormous, boxed gift which the dean of the faculty wishes to give me. I explain that, not only do they have food on the plane, but they also have food in the business lounge, and I don’t need any more. I take the gift as I know it is very poor form to turn one down. I ask the helper to convey my thanks to the dean.

We arrive at the airport and, instead of going to the front of departures, the driver goes to the car park despite my protestations and gesticulations. It turns out the helper must take me into the airport and wait with me until departure. I tell her I can check in now, proceed to do so and leave her bewildered at the entrance to security. She is still there after I have gone through, watching me intensely until I disappear from view.

I find the nearest gents’ toilet, enter a cubicle, put the dean’s gift behind the pedestal and leave it there. I only strictly carry cabin luggage and, as the gift is larger than my carry-on case, I would have to put it in the hold. Reaching the lounge, despite it only being 9:30 am, I pour myself a large Johnnie Walker Red Label, down it in one and take seat. Despite all the above I’ll be back in a few weeks and, as usual, I am looking forward to it.

This article was originally published by the Daily Sceptic.