Day 14

Day 14 - Monday, April 14 2008

FORBIDDEN CITY, Beijing, 1030: The dateline is not as expected but at least it defused a potential boxing match. Maybe that was due to visiting the Hall of Domestic Harmony and the Hall of Mental Tranquility. It certainly marked a reasonably auspicious ending to a trip that began with high hopes but deteriorated to fiasco levels along the way.

The ship’s agent had obtained seamen’s shore passes for us, the Chiwan passport stamps were still good for Beijing, no unforeseen problems lurking, so all systems go. While filling in the requisite forms, the agent had shown no response on learning that Linda is English, but broke into delighted smiles on hearing my declaration of Scottishness. “You know Stephen Hendry and John Higgins?”

Ah, a snooker fan, obviously. Of course I know them.

“They’re my favourite players. Hendry from Edinburgh, Higgins from Wishaw. You get signatures for me?” Don’t know them that well, though. Not even as well as he did. I’d have been hard-pressed to name their home towns.

Snooker conversation punctuated the explaining of arrangements. A car and driver were waiting to take us to Beijing. The driver would organise a hotel, but if we didn’t like it we could ask him to find one of our choice.

The car turned out to be a Volkswagen Santana, so our musical transport theme continued on shore. But I should have recognised a bad omen when I saw it. The driver was wearing a blue windbreaker with an all too familiar emblem on the front. Three lions supine, stacked vertically like our foredeck containers, though nowhere near as attractive. I grumbled to Linda about coming all this way to be chauffeured by an England football fan. She countered by pointing out that a fan of Scottish snooker had fixed it, so shut up.

Linda claimed that her guidebook put Beijing about 90 minutes away. England football fan shook his head. “Three hours, at least.” Who should I believe? For once, I had to side with an England fan. Local knowledge must be trusted, but (expletive deleted) it was already gone 1830, so there wouldn’t be much time for exploration. And we were due back on board by 1330 the next day, which meant heading for home at 1030, so two and a half hours max in the capital in exchange for six or seven hours on the road. In a non-smoking car. Who’s bright idea was this? (Another expletive deleted. Several in fact.)

We were on our way by this time, having dropped off England fan’s daughter and picked up his wife. Maybe this was why the trip was taking so long. The light was fast fading, so we couldn’t even watch the world go by. Nothing for it but to press on in grumpy silence.

Traffic was heavy but moving smoothly. For every car there must have been at least 20 trucks, each pulling a container. Tosca carries 8,500 containers so that’s 8,500 lorry trips for us alone. Multiply that by the millions in circulation and I feel less guilty about enlarging the carbon footprint by taking a cab home from the Old Vic when conditions are unfavourable to pedestrianism.

A glance at the speedo shows we’re only doing about 80-90 km/h. Why such dawdling? Put foot, England fan, I say to myself. At this rate, you’ll never cut the bean curd as a cabbie in Dubai. Road signs are scarce, but then I spot one that that says ‘100’. Speed limit. We tend to allow a plus 10 per cent margin of error; here it must be minus 10 per cent. About the same time, Linda spots one saying ‘Beijing, 74 km’. “See, I told you - that’s less than an hour away.” I don’t even comment.

We hit toll-road pay points at what seems to be 10-minute intervals, with queues of equal duration. That strikes me as smoke-break opportunity, but get hauled back inside as I try to escape. “You’ll probably get arrested. Stay where you are,” moaned Abingdon’s Miss Optimism, 1953. Maybe not such a bad prospect. At least I could have a fag in the cells.

The smoke-break opportunity did arrive eventually, when we left the freeway (if two lanes count as a freeway) and headed up a rutted side road to a dimly-lit portakabin and an empty parking lot. “Need to check here,” says England fan. (Driver, not Linda.) I follow him to what seems to be some kind of border post, but why are we the only ones here? Portakabin’s uniformed occupant is watching an American cops and robbers movie with Chinese sub-titles and seems singularly uninterested in our presence. After a brief exchange, Fan says “Next one” and points to another shed about 300 metres away. I stay put and continue replenishing my nicotine levels as he drives off with Linda and Mrs Fan.

“T’were well it were done quickly,” said Lady MacBeth (no she wasn’t with also with us, but you know what I mean) and her influence is obviously still felt in China. We were on our way again before I’d even stubbed out my third Marlboro (nicotine levels were severely depleted), still none the wiser as to the reason for the detour.

About 2130 we were on the outskirts of Beijing. Shiny new buildings mixed with older and more tired looking architecture. Half an hour later, it was all new and shiny as we hit the city centre. Our Great Wall plan had already been hit to leg because of time constraints. “Take too long get there,” according to Fan, and who was to argue after he’d been proved so right on the trip from Tianjin. Consulting the guide-book with the aid of Bic lighter, Linda had settled on the Forbidden City as an acceptable alternative. She’d even found a hotel right by the main gate. Fan was now trying to locate the preferred destination.

By 2230 we were through the glitzy bits and definitely skirting the Forbidden City - Linda claimed to recognise the walls from her guide-book pix. I took her word for it, but Fan didn’t seem so sure. He was driving hesitantly, peering at signs and consulting volubly with Mrs Fan. We pulled up at the Yeng Xiu hotel, a modest and not particularly inviting establishment. “Not what we want,” says Linda and she and Mr & Mrs Fan get out to examine the guide-book map under the street lights. A knot of helpful Chinese gather round them, all declaiming noisily and pointing in different directions.
Time for another fag while they got on with discussing navigation and agreeing course and waypoints. Maybe I should have brought my sextant. My calculations were only three miles out. God knows where we are now.

Street meeting ends, and off we go again. By 2300 we were clearly off the beaten track. This was Chinatown, movies style, not Beijing the heartland of global economy. Jeez, just find a hotel, any hotel. I’m tired, hungry, thirsty, and at risk of becoming mildly bad-tempered. Even my renowned tolerance levels have their limits. Prayers were answered in the form of the Days Inn Joiest that suddenly appeared to starboard. A tall, modern-looking establishment with a reasonably-imposing frontage - and you could see a smart foyer through the big revolving glass doors. This will do, so in we go.

“You want room?” “Of course, I want a room, you dough-faced imbecile. Do I look like I’m Donald Trump and I’m here to buy the place?” These thoughts ran unbidden as I smiled sweetly and confirmed that securing a room for the night was indeed the intention. “For two of you?” “Yes, for two of us,” (unless Linda still insisted on walking by herself to find her mythical guide-book venue, which might be not such a bad idea). “We have available - 450 yuan.” Where do I sign? Cue for Mr Fan to go fetch the bags. Everything was going swimmingly with providing proof of identity, form filling, and plastic authorisation until some jobsworth reappeared with our passports, scratching his head.

“Why no Beijing stamp? Not good.” Mr Fan arrived just in time and launched into an animated explanation, after which jobsworth took off again, frowning and looking unimpressed. By then, we’d already been allocated a room number, and my unerring instincts had tracked down the bar. The room rate for the night had been doubled and swiped though the plastic scanner - “In case you spend more. If not, you get change.” When the going gets tough, the tough go drinking, so head for the bar while jobsworth checks our dodgy passport stamps with the local party boss and if it’s OK for us to stay. Assuming that’s what he’s doing. Anyway, we’ve already paid for lots of beer in advance, so let’s be at ‘em. “Two Tsingtao, please!” “Big bottle?” “Yes, biggest you’ve got.” One 600 ml bottle arrives. That’ll do for starters, especially as Linda and Mr & Mrs Fan are still outside at reception awaiting jobsworth’s verdict. Ah, that went down well. “Where’s the other bottle?” “No more big bottle.” “Then bring small bottles!” Their arrival coincides with Linda’s, who immediately lays claim to one of them. Oy! I was here first - get your own! Why aren’t you out there sorting out the jobsworth? (At times, women have no sense of decorum.)

Before beer reinforcements materialise, Mr & Mrs Fan join us, beaming happily. All is OK. We are clear to spend the night at the Days Inn Joiest. Let joy be unconfined, even if it is gone midnight. They have already made their own accommodation arrangements and will meet us in the lobby at 0800. Meantime, we can retire upstairs, order grub and beer from room service, and fire up laptop for email download and world news catch up.

“Sorry, room service for food finished.” And I was so looking forward to the day’s special - ‘Orchidian fry shrimp sphere’. Ah well, it will have to be a liquid diet again, just for a change. “Sorry, no beer for room possible. Water for guests in room.”
Linda was already complaining that the bed sheet was just a covering for a pile of bricks, and the beer news did not improve her disposition. Mine was not further enhanced by the ‘speed’ of the internet connection. This was not turning out to be the Days Inn of the Seventh Happiness.

Still, look on the bright side. We’re in Beijing and have a date with the Forbidden City in the morning. Set the alarm for 0700 on the mobile (only thing it’s good for here) and wake up fit and refreshed for exploring China’s history. The brick bed turned (not to mention the tosses) out to have other ideas during a fitful and uncomfortable night’s sleep, but eventually one of the turns was for the better - the last one before getting up. The rest will have to wait for tomorrow’s instalment, and the Hall of Literary Glory.


Noon position 38◦58.80 N - 117◦47.19 E
Day’s run to noon - 43 miles
6,344 miles out from Khor Fakkan
Heading 310◦
Local time GMT+8
Average speed - 1.77 knots

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