“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.
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