PutuoFrom Chicken Feet to Crystal Baths 22: Day Tripper
If GE’s strategy of investment in China is wrong, it represents a loss of a billion dollars, perhaps a couple of billion dollars. If it is right, it is the future of this company for the next century.
— Jack Welch
As I continued to travel around the country visiting clients, I was needled many times about my job: “All you ever do is take clients for lunch and dinner — and go to karaoke.” (Thankfully, at least they said karaoke and not KTV.) Whilst I would take some argument about the fact that this was all that I did, occasionally I had to demonstrate to people that I had some more conventional business meetings which did not involve entertainment. Quite often these took place in nearby provinces where I could go and return within one day, such as Zhejiang. Business was picking up nicely after the dip in early 2009, but there was still a long way to go to really establish our business, which meant I continued to meet with clients wherever possible.
Zhejiang is the province located to the south of Shanghai; it borders the city and the East China Sea. The province has more and more of a symbiotic relationship with Shanghai, feeding the big city with people, new recruits, investments, and ideas. Its cities provide havens of slightly quieter, slower living compared to international Shanghai, a marginally more rarefied atmosphere in which you can spend your money once you have made it. They are places to trade with Shanghai companies, to do business with international firms who have come to Shanghai anyway, but also to create your own niche in a more localised spot. It has come a long way from being known as the “Land of Fish and Rice”. Zhejiang is one of the smaller provinces in China but also one of the richest per head of population, and it’s one of the most influential. As a result, I went to quite a few of the cities within the province. It was never for that long, but just enough to get a feel for the local differences and culture — and to see the money at work.
The first one I went to in Zhejiang was Hangzhou, a city of a mere seven million people, currently just over an hour from Shanghai on the fast train. The authorities are building a yet faster train that eventually will cut the travel time to forty-five minutes, so eventually you will be able to commute from Hangzhou to work in Shanghai. Needless to say, property prices in the smarter parts of Hangzhou are approaching or even beating those in Shanghai.
Hangzhou has traditionally built its reputation on its most famous site, Xi Hu, the West Lake, which is probably the most famous lake in China. The lake itself inevitably dominates the town centre, being the focal point for tourism and for the identity of the city. Like many famous tourist spots in China, it is impressive, well worth seeing, and generally completely overrun with tourists whenever you choose to go there.
I say generally, but there are exceptions. The first such exception was when Heidi and I visited one weekend from Shanghai. We checked into a nice hotel on the lake and started wandering around, trying to see what the fuss was about. Things were as we had expected; there was, indeed a large, pretty lake. What we had not expected, however, was a torrential downpour as soon as we were out of sight of the hotel. We had to resort to taking cover under some trees whilst the rain lashed down. The trees did not provide as much cover as we had hoped, and we were soon soaked.
It turned out that we were experiencing the tail end of a typhoon, and we had been caught outside in it. The silver lining was that for once (not surprisingly, maybe) the lake was quiet, and the tourist hordes were nowhere to be seen.
Later in the day, when things had calmed down and we had dried off, we managed to get back out again. In calmer weather, the lake was indeed beautiful, lined by trees and avenues, with only the occasional temple or lantern breaking the pattern. Tourists were messing around in paddle boats; there were small islands and many an arched bridge to connect them all, which allowed circumnavigation of the entire lake, should one feel sufficiently energetic. Even the obligatory Xi Hu Starbucks was subtle, the façade for once not jarring with its green surroundings.
One of the highlights of going to Hangzhou is seeing a performance of Impressions West Lake, a show that is performed out on the lake whilst the audience sits in a stand on the lakeside, facing outwards. The show features actors singing and performing, lights illuminating the hills in the backdrop, and moving stages, all interacting with the water and the landscape. I can thoroughly recommend it for anyone visiting. There are a few of these shows dotted around different cities in China, all part of the Impressions series. Each takes the local culture and geography and ties it to ancient traditional stories, and all of the shows are co-directed by film director Zhang Yimou. If you have seen any of his films, such as Hero or House of Flying Daggers, you may have some idea what to expect: huge numbers of people, lots of flair, and lots of colour and energy — although maybe you could also say less concern about a tangible narrative.
The Hangzhou show features performers appearing to walk on the water of the lake, with the landscape providing the backdrop to the story of a local legend: boy meets girl, boy loses girl, and then they are reunited in the afterlife. The many performers use lanterns, drums, and flags to provide a spectacle, and the finale features an illuminated triangular frame rising out of the water, creating a waterfall of “Hangzhou Rain” for the performers to sing in front of. Hangzhou rain? Yes, that was something that on that first trip I felt all too familiar with!
Not long after we had been to Hangzhou, Heidi and I took a day to visit the Zhejiang river town of Wuzhen. Wuzhen is reachable on the bus from Shanghai and is famous for the central part of the town with a maze of rivers and canals criss-crossed with humped bridges. Think “The Venice of China”.
Upon our arrival, we noticed that there was a performance going on for the tourists. A local man shinned up a vertical bamboo pole until he was a good 10 metres straight up in the air. As the pole started to bend over to one side, he adjusted his weight to balance on the pole, until he was perched on a part that was nearly horizontal. He then stood up on the pole, spun round it a few times, and generally made it all look very easy, whilst still being a good distance above the particularly cold-looking water below. I dread to think how many times he had fallen in while training for this.
The town was charming, and we were glad that we had taken the time to visit. As the day rolled on, we had a look around, took some photos, ate dinner, and continued wandering about, as the canals and bridges were tastefully lit up in the dark of the evening. We began to contemplate staying the night in a quaint courtyard hotel and returning to Shanghai the next morning. However, what we had forgotten (quick tip if you are ever travelling) is that in China you cannot check into a hotel without formal documentation — no passport, no room. Heidi had her Chinese ID card, but I had nothing, and we were politely moved along.
This, then, meant trying to get back to Shanghai fairly late at night, with no sign of the bus on which we had come. We hit on the idea of taking a cab back to the nearest main town and then jumping on a train for the final part of the journey. It seemed to be a reasonable plan. With a little negotiation we managed to procure a taxi, and after half an hour we arrived in the nearest town. We then had a very strange experience; we had been dropped off at the train station only to find that there was nobody there. Already, this made me suspicious — Chinese train stations tend to be some of the busiest places around. For there not to be anyone around in the evening was not a good sign. Sure enough, when we stuck our heads inside the door, we saw that the station was completely deserted. A security guard saw us and waved us away — nope, the trains had all gone for the night, and the station was now shut. Time for plan B, then.
Fortunately, whilst we were still some distance from Shanghai, everything always has its price. There were still a few taxi drivers dotted around the car park. After some intense haggling, we found one willing to drive us all the way back home for a not-too-extortionate amount of money, and we sat in the back of a cramped Santana all the way back home. Tough journey back, but worth the effort.
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I had other business meetings in Zhejiang, in Ningbo and back to Hangzhou, without ever spending much time in any of these. I finally did get some time outside of work in May 2010, with a bank holiday looming. I persuaded Heidi that we should visit the island of Putuoshan, near Shanghai, described by my usually reliable Lonely Planet guide as, “the China we all dream about — temples, pagodas, arched bridges, narrow alleys, fishing boats, artisans and monks — and the China we see on postcards and in coffee-table books. Here you feel miles away from the hustle and bustle that characterise modern China cities.” Sounded good to me.
Putuoshan is an island, which naturally enough, we had to reach by ferry. First step, though, was to get the bus out to the Shanghai port, where we could meet the boat to take us out to the island. Early one Sunday morning, Heidi and I stood at the bus garage as a succession of buses pulled up and filled with local tourists. After waiting our turn, eventually we were off.
Before leaving, I had had slight concerns over the quality of the ferry, given that one of the ways to get to Putuoshan from Shanghai was via a twelve-hour overnight boat trip. However, at the port the boat looked reasonably respectable and, more importantly, reasonably fast; we boarded and took our seats. The trip itself lasted a manageable two and a half hours, and the only point of note was that the boat authorities played some DVD entertainment for all of the passengers; in particular, they showed the original series of Mr Bean. I am not quite sure what inspired them to choose this, but it seemed to work, as all of the Shanghainese sitting around me were in fits of laughter as Rowan Atkinson demonstrated how to take his trousers off whilst wearing his swimming trunks on the outside, and how to drive his car with his feet whilst sitting in the back seat. I watched a bit, and then I returned to trying to complete the last level on Angry Birds.
When we arrived in Putuoshan, any illusions of an idyllic couple of days wandering around deserted dusky temples were shattered as we disembarked into the harbour terminal, which was organised chaos. Thousands of people milled around in every direction, trying to buy the obligatory tickets that were needed to actually set foot on the island. Once we had done this and made our way out of the terminal, we found the surrounding area even worse. Crowds surged on all sides, and from every side touts approached us trying to offer us lodging and accommodation.
Thankfully, we had already booked a hotel, the only one on the island that I could find still having vacancies a few days before the holiday started. Heidi was somewhat concerned at its three-star status, but given the choice between that and taking one of the rooms on offer from the touts, she quickly agreed that we should still seek it out.
Before we did so, however, we first stopped for lunch. We wandered out of the terminal and into the nearby village, where it seemed that every house was a seafood restaurant, each with its own obligatory fish tanks. We were pulled into one of the first establishments and chose our fish direct from the tanks, — thinking how Homer (Simpson, of course) once said in a similar situation, “He looks a feisty fellow” — and the waitress fished it out with a net, holding it up for our final approval as the fish flapped around in front of our eyes. Yes, it looked all right, we agreed, so the waitress turned and smashed the net and the fish against a nearby wall with some considerable force. Not surprisingly, the fish did not look so feisty any more.
“Please sit down; your food will be ready in a few minutes.”
After lunch, we wandered along to the hotel, and then I decided to take a walk up to one of the local sights. Chaoyang Dong, which was a Buddhist temple, sat on a hill by the sea, topped with a tall bronze holy statue that could be seen from all directions. Legend had it that in the 900s, a Japanese monk wanted to steal the statue away to Japan, but in a dream he realised the horrific act that he was undertaking, and so he left the statue on Putuoshan. There must have been a fair few other dreams recently as well, because as I walked up the road, I was followed by more and more tourists; it was little surprise when I entered the temple and found more crowds. Many were lighting incense, praying in front of the statue, or vigorously throwing coins into large urns as a way of sacrifice and donation. It occurred to me then that I was not there just to see the temple but that the crowds themselves were the spectacle. I found a spot by a wall and just watched for a while as the people flowed past me. I took some photos of young kids struggling to reach the urns to deposit their coins, bored girlfriends and wives checking their mobiles as their partners bowed and prayed, or whole families lighting incense together, risking the somewhat lively flames to pay their respects.
On the way back down, I managed to get off the beaten track and wandered through some wooden lanes that were all but deserted. Arriving back down at the main road, I took my shoes off and walked barefoot along the sand of the beach, stopping to sit and go through my pictures as the sun went down behind me. For once, it was quiet and tranquil. This was a bit more of the atmosphere that I had expected.
The following morning, we set out for the largest temple on the island, the Puji Si. Again we walked, declining the only other option of joining a public minibus. We saw no cars on the island; the only method of travel was the network of minibuses which ferried people from one site to another. The temple itself was located in another small village, with a network of lanes and small shops surrounding it. We meandered through the shops and then steeled ourselves for the chaos in the temple.
Of course, the temple was crammed. It was a large one, with a main hall and a number of smaller halls, each beautifully laid out and surrounded by Buddhist relics (which I have seen many times now but still, somewhat shamefully, do not know the respective significance of). I could tell, though, that this was the key religious spot on the island. Everyone was paying their respects, burning yet more incense, and prostrating themselves at the foot of the statues in the main hall. Heidi and I lost each other briefly, so I wandered around again trying to take in more of people’s behaviour than the pure sights. When we eventually did manage to find each other again, we too burned incense and made three wishes.
When we got back home later that night, I dug out my Lonely Planet to reread their comments on Putuoshan. The book was right about the place itself, what you could see and how it looked. But it was very wrong in terms of its atmosphere, its popularity, and the sensations of actually being there. I immediately realised why; I was using my Lonely Planet China that I bought when I had first started regularly travelling to the mainland from Hong Kong. It was the 2003 edition, and so it was out of date — seven years is a near-lifetime in China years. I should have known better than to trust old information.
Another Zhejiang city that I visited just once was Wenzhou. Wenzhou has a particular reputation within China of being one of the most commerce-orientated places in the country. Wenzhou people are renowned for being good at business, so much so that they are sometimes known as “the Jews of the East”. There are a host of business books published that purport to tell their trading secrets. The city, by varying accounts, makes at least 70 per cent of the world’s cigarette lighters.
Ninety percent of businesses in Wenzhou are privately owned. One problem with is that when they first developed they were technically illegal, given that all businesses were supposed to be state run, and there were no rules in place to control them. Secondly, after a while, all of these private companies began to trade with each other, and then some even started lending money to each other. This made sense on both sides: lenders could make a better return on their money than by just leaving it on deposit, and borrowers could obtain money more flexibly and quickly than from the banks. Every business and citizen became interlinked. All of the time that business was good, everyone did well based on each other’s success.
Fast forward to 2011 however, and there were a lot of rumours that Wenzhou was having problems, that liquidity was tight, and that the private sources had ceased lending to each other, to the point that they were calling their loans back in. Suddenly the flow of money was going the other way, and they were all pulling each other down. All of the money had been lent on somewhere else, and now the music was stopping — nobody could repay their debts. We had a client in Wenzhou, and on hearing the rumours, I immediately asked how he was getting on. “Fine,” was the answer. “No problems at all.”
However, that was not strictly true. Not long after I was assured that his company was liquid, they were due to pay us back some money, and they did not. They just needed a few days, I was told, but a few days turned into a week and then two, and then it was clear we had a problem. I took the plane to Wenzhou.
In terms of my role as a banker, this was somewhat of a new experience for me. I was going to see a client not to try and do more business, not to conduct due diligence or even to beg a favour; I was going to ask for our money back — nothing more, nothing less. We needed repayment, and they had to cough up. A few of us from the office went to the meeting, and on the plane over we divided the roles up as we decided our tactics. For reasons I am still not sure about, I was nominated to be the bad cop, the one who was just going to go in and make our demands. This is not really the way I tend to operate, but it was actually quite liberating: no being reasonable, no compromising, no worrying about the long-term relationship or working to build a solution. Just make my demands: Pay back. Pay back. Pay back.
Our meeting with the client took three hours, which is a long time when you are only really discussing one issue. He started defensively, trying to claim that he should not have to pay us back in the first place; he moved through being conciliatory, admitting that he was late in payment; and then, finally, he tried for compromise, promising to repay if we could just do him a favour here or there. A few more days and all would be good, because after all, did we not just all want to work together and be friends? I could tell that there was stress under the surface, that this client’s business was having a lot of problems, and that many of the rumours about Wenzhou were likely true. Everyone had helped each other succeed on the way up, and now everyone was bringing each other down as things deteriorated.
I played my role in the meeting, denying most of the client’s requests and generally being grumpy, before finally granting one or two minor concessions in order to give face and to have him agree to a set schedule. We returned home reasonably happy with our day’s work, knowing that he would pay up one week later — which, of course, he did not. Our efforts had failed, so we had to send in the heavy brigade. We have a team specialised in recovering bad loans, and they went to see the client not long afterwards. I am not sure what they said or quite what blunt instruments they took into the meeting with them, but they obviously had the desired effect. This time the client did actually pay up, our loan was cleared, and we as a Bank escaped from the situation, chastened but repaid.
