Day 16

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Day 16 - Wednesday, April 16 2008

We were off Shanghai about 0500 this morning, but decided to stay abed for docking as rain and mist looked like messing up any prospect of new visual delights. Good decision, as we were still in the same position on rousing for breakfast at 0730. The weather delay meant we were not alongside until about 1030, so our shoreside trip is postponed for a few hours when all the customs, quarantine, immigration, and shore pass processing will be out of the way.

The container terminal is about a 90 minute drive from the city (where have I heard that one before?), linked by a bridge reputedly about 40 miles long. Can vaguely make out this end of it from the for’ard porthole. We’re due back on board by 1100, so at least there will be more time for rubber-necking than we had in Beijing.

The trip south from Tianjin was uneventful, still shrouded in mist, so most of the time was devoted to cabin activities. I read my book, while Linda rediscovered her true purpose for being here and got on with the washing and ironing. She was also due to clean the portholes. The visibility’s poor enough without having to peer through a layer of accumulated Beijing grime, but she weaselled out on the spurious excuse that weather conditions were not conducive and that she didn’t have a safety harness. Bet the Victory didn’t carry safety harnesses as standard kit, but Nelson still had to see where he was going, especially with only one eye.

Correction. I got the distance unit wrong for the Shanghai bridge - it’s 40 kilometres, not miles. Having now crossed it twice, I can pronounce on that with some authority.

My dissertation on Linda’s dereliction of domestic duties was stalled by the arrival of Jackie Wong, Tosca’s Shanghai agent, to announce that we were all clear to hit the Whore of the Orient, as the guide-book so quaintly puts it.

A Buick Regal awaited us at the bottom of the gangway, door held open by a uniformed chauffeur, complete with white gloves. This was looking better by the minute. Regal has no musical connection as far as I know (unless I make a contorted mental leap to Regaletto?), but David Dunbar Buick was a Scot, so that more than compensates.

We were accompanied by Romain, Tosca’s young French cadet officer. The skipper thought it better to entrust him to our care rather than let him loose on his own. The oldies would be a responsible and restraining influence. Ho ho! How wrong can you get? He obviously hasn’t got to know us all that well over 16 days on his ship.

This time, the promised 90 minutes proved spot on. We had seven hours at our disposal and Linda had done her homework as to how it would be spent. First stop, Shanghai National Museum, fixing that with the chauffeur as rendezvous for 2100 return departure. ‘Queue here for free admission tickets’, said the sign, where two uniformed lassies were standing. The first one issued the tickets. They were then collected by her colleague two paces away, who handed them back for replacement in the stack. This was an object lesson in civil service job creation that puts even New Labour in the shade.

The museum was all that it promised - a treasure trove of everything from the first known bank notes to ceramics through the ages, likewise artwork, sculpture, furniture, textiles, clothing and much more. I fancied the suit made from salmon skins, at one time all the rage in Hunan province. That would really cut a dash with the Rattlesnake ladies on a Thursday night.

But there’s a limit to cultural vulturism, and by now we were more than satisfied that early Chinese civilisation was centuries, if not millennia, ahead of Europe. Time to look for something with a different appeal. Like beer. Trusting the unerring instincts in that department, we came upon a building that at first glance struck me as probably being Shanghai’s original city hall - an imposing sandstone structure in neo-classical style, topped by the mandatory clock tower. Closer inspection revealed a plaque identifying it as the one-time Shanghai Turf Club, officially opened in 1934! Ascot could learn from this - how to really have a stylish day at the races.

The race-course is now the People’s Park, and what a park it is. A proper forest with trees of every description, shrubberies and flower gardens, manicured lawns, and ornamental ponds. The instinct was right again, for in the middle of one of the ponds was Barbarossa, an open-air bar and restaurant in the most relaxing environment imaginable. Here, in the heart of one of the world’s busiest cities, all you could hear was the constant trilling of birds, a full-on avian orchestra that even drowned out our contented slurping (apart from Linda banging her pint glass on the table to demand another round).

I could have stayed there all day, but Griswald responsibilities were calling so we headed for Nanjing Road, a frenetic alternative. This is a pedestrian shopping precinct that stretches for about 1.5 km, dominated by all the boring global brands but relieved by dozens of hawkers, touting everything from air tickets to heelies (I think that’s what they’re called, the abbreviated roller-skates that are heels-only style). You quickly learn to ignore them or fend them off with a 1,000-yard stare, not breaking stride as the next importunist vies for attention. Our goal was the Bund, the Shanghai waterfront, and a bar recommended by the skipper called, appropriately enough, the Captain’s Table.

Armed with guide-book, Linda the Navigator led the way, but we should have known better. Romain had some excuse (he’s an engineering cadet), so I will have to take responsibility for the unscheduled 45-minute hike in the wrong direction. Hadn’t I learned anything from Beijing? Obviously not. “It’s this way - the guide-book says it’s a stone’s throw from the Bund.” “Bollocks, it’s back there on the other side of the road. Even David with his sling couldn’t throw a stone this far, but at this rate you’re heading for the same fate as Goliath.”

Fortunately, the hike was not without its interesting bits. Stately turn of the century buildings mixed with art deco style and modern facades of glass and stainless steel. Across the water, the futuristic Pearl of the Orient tower soars into the sky, an elongated cylinder on a tripod base, topped by a sphere resembling a giant cricket ball, circled by flickering lights and sprouting a tapered antenna. This belongs on the cover of a science fiction novel - just the kind of thing that the Martians would arrive in.

Ah, the joys of another ‘told you so’ moment. Linda eventually consulted a street trader who gesticulated back the way we came. So back we went, and yet another town hall clock lookalike was chiming 7:00 pm as we entered the unprepossessing foyer of the Captain’s Table premises, and the equally unkempt lift. This used to be the YMCA building, but it was not clear if the Captain’s Table dated from then. Probably not. The poster in the lift was of a young lady brandishing a glass and wearing not much more than a come-hither expression. If this is what Christianity is all about, where do I sign up?

We must have been too early for her shift, though, as the duty staff were demurely clad in dark uniforms in the style made popular by Chairman Mao. The lift only went to the fourth floor and the bar was reached by a metal staircase lined with lifebelts. Inside proved a different world to the approaches. Warm lighting, comfortable seats, and an open air deck with a great view of the waterfront and the passing show. Better still, it was happy hour, two for the price of one. Once again, we slurped contentedly, overlooking old Shanghai, where some of the godown warehouses still stand, and conjured up the days of tea clippers and windjammers when Shanghai was sailors’ hog heaven, and often hell.

All too soon, it was time to move again. We worked our way backwards through side streets, where the shops were far more interesting than the designer brands of Nanjing Road. We stopped at a specialist tea shop where we were entertained to an elaborate tasting ceremony and bought a really odd variety. It starts off as a greenish-brown lump about the size of a golf ball. Add boiling water, and it unfolds to reveal a red flower at its heart surrounded by delicate white petals. Amazing to watch, even if the taste was unremarkable.

My eye was caught by a shop sign saying ‘Heilan Home’, and a logo that appeared to be a representation of two teuchters cutting peat. It now stocked a predictable array of men’s clothing, but could this be the modern evolution of a trading post originally established for the benefit of far-travelled Highlanders like myself? I could only speculate, and it was pointless to ask. No one here seemed to speak Gaelic apart from me. Almost next door was ‘Grandmother’s Restaurant’, so inevitably I had to break into a maudlin rendering of ‘Ma Granny’s Heilan Hame’. The Captain’s Table pints must have woken up my lately unexercised singing skills. Romain and Linda refused to join in, claiming not to know the words, and went on looking for a place that sold harmonicas. Romain could join in with accompaniment when he found one. Meantime, I had stumbled by accident on a good way of keeping the hawkers at bay.

My erstwhile companions were laden with purchases as we reconvened at the National Theatre and the drive back to Tosca. Still not clear why they had left me, and there were dark mutterings about it being ‘all my fault’ when I woke up at the harbour gates to discover there were problems with the immigration people. My fault? The Chinese are renowned for their musical appreciation. You’re not suggesting that my singing could have attracted unwelcome attention from the authorities? That was near the National Opera House after all, so if anything they’d be offering me a job.

After a hold-up of about 45 minutes while passports and shore passes were being examined and cross-checked against the Interpol register of bass-baritone terrorists, I was proved right yet again. Not with a job at the Opera House, but with clearance to board, nevertheless. By now it was almost midnight and for some reason my throat was unusually dry. A wee drop of Famous Grouse would make an ideal lubricant before bedtime. But where’s the bottle gone? Oh, no, not another dematerialising trick! I really must have a word with Linda about this. I could do with less djinn, and she’d be the better for more tonic.

Noon position 36◦38.13 N - 122◦02.55 E
Day’s run to noon - 426 miles
7,113 miles out from Khor Fakkan
Heading 310◦
Local time GMT+8
Average speed - 17.8 knots

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