past the peak

so what did you do in the cultural revolution, dad?

It's funny how things that you don't look forward to turn out to be interesting. Or maybe just different to the way you expected.

Last week we were organising a seminar on infrastructure projects in the Pearl River Delta (for those not familiar with this niche sport, this is the "Workshop of the World" in Guangdong Province, just north of Hong Kong, and the crucible of the Chinese economic miracle), and we had a dinner for the guest speakers at a swanky hotel in town.

The speakers came from both Hong Kong and Guangdong. The former bunch pretty much fitted the Hong Kong bill: a couple of Hong Kong Chinese good in their field and quite sophisticated, and an expat lawyer who has been in Hong Kong for more years than he could remember. The Guangdongers also lived up to expectations: rather dour, speaking little or no English, and eating in that characteristic 'etiquette-lite' way that is one of the less loveable traits of our mainland neighbours.

Conversation was stilted. A bright Chinese girl from our Guangzhou office had travelled down with the mainlanders and did a masterful job interpreting between the mouthfuls of fish. They say language is a reflection of culture and even allowing for the ‘lost in translation’ factor it was clear that the main guest ( an elderly man with a craggy face and an air of self-importance) had had an interesting life.

He was constantly writing imaginary Chinese characters on the table cloth, a kind of calligraphic air guitar. He said that his hobby was writing character scrolls and we had a good ten minutes of pretty bewildering exchanges about the why and the how of charcoal and brush versus pen. It seemed to be going nowhere as a conversation, and it was looking increasingly as if the rest of the evening would crawl along at slow-mo speed. At least, that is, until the interpreter blandly mentioned the fact that our guest had got into calligraphy while trying to fill time during his enforced banishment to the countryside for ‘re-education through labour’ at the time of the Cultural Revolution (Little Red Books, Red Guards etc, during the late 60s/early 70s).

I think my eyebrows shooting up a couple of inches probably gave him the signal that this was interesting news to me. He was right. While doing some elementary Mandarin in the late 60’s at my home counties grammar school (don’t ask), we’d used some basic Chinese newspaper texts as study material. All of sudden I was talking face to face with someone who’d been caught up in the lunacy that had passed for a form of revolutionary change management all those decades before.

Sensing my interest, he threw out a few titbits about the way he’d had to endure the countryside and the privations of being on the wrong side of the Red Guards’ fervour (my words, not his). I tried to tease more out of him, but he suddenly clammed up; not good to wash the family dirty linen in front of strangers, I guess. So as soon as the window on that world opened, it slammed shut again. There we were, once again talking inanities over high-class Californian cuisine in the world’s smartest city (sorry NY and Tokyo), as if nothing had happened.

The whole thing had reminded me how, as a naïve teenager, I’d thought that the goings-on in China were strange and how it must be very weird place, or just a very weird time. And here I was, all those decades later, talking to someone who’d lived through it and survived.

For him, of course, it must just be one relatively small part of a tumultuous life that still has some way to run if Chinese longevity tables are anything to go by. The way China is going, the rest of his journey could be just as eventful, if less painful. He now runs a very large imported car, and he lives with his family in nice house in a well-off area. Of course many of his generation are not so lucky, still living in the crumbling agricultural systems out in the boonies or trying to migrate from the rust-belt dying state-owned enterprises to the new shiny hi-tech factories of the Pearl and Yangtse deltas.

If nothing else, our conversation will make me look at the gazillions of middle-aged (and older) people you see when visiting the mainland in a completely different light. Now I realise that they’ll all have their own stories tucked away in the back of their brains, but I won’t be able to hear about them or know what they went through. Unless I spot any of them air-writing as they pass their time away …

going to the mall

Another windswept, drizzle-sodden day up on the Hill. Didn't even get the joy of watching the trees whipping sideways in the gale as the entire view from the window was obscured by cumulo something rolling across the patio. We had the son of friends staying with us overnight while they were out of town. He's a great guy, but I won't miss the music track to the PS2 underground driving game pulsing through the house as he and my daughter duelled it out on the telly. So much for a day of rest.

Relief came (or so I thought) when we had to pop down to Central to buy her a new set of trainers. It got us away from the PS2 but into Pacific Place, arguably one of Hong Kong's swankiest shopping malls. Pacific Place is like most malls in Hong Kong, only more so: full of high-roller branded shops selling the latest indulgences from global fashion leaders blah blah. Unless you're the wife of a Hong Kong entrepreneur, a gweilo investment banker in receipt of your inflated annual bonus, or one of the increasing numbers of cash-rich (and I mean rich) mainland tourists flocking here to get a taste of real capitalism at work, you'll probably just want to buy some good (but expensive) food at the GREAT food hall or stroll along people-watching.

For the training shoe purchase we had the choice of two big sports outlets: GigaSports or Marathon Sports. Interestingly, both are owned by the same company. Which also, incidentally, owns the mall too. But never mind that now. We opted for Giga. It's up on one of the higher floors, so you get to look down (in every sense) on the other shoppers. Giga was its usual pleasant self, only today it had an extra ingredient; the USS Kitty Hawk is in town and the place was full of its crew looking to buy up the place. Either their tourist guidance has been got at by the mall owners or defending global democracy pays much better than I’d imagined.

Anyway, the purchase only took about an hour, not bad really when you think that trainers are probably the single fastest-moving clothing item in the world right now, after M&S underwear and Lance Armstrong cancer bangles. But as someone whose need for sports shoes is probably less than that of any other ambulant person on the planet, the experience bought home to me just how much time money and effort people are prepared to expend on getting the (for them) right set of footwear. Should we go for cross-trainers or field shoes; Nike or New Balance; zip front or lace; low impact soles or 'air technology'; pink or day-glo blue? Having the right size in stock would be good.

The guys from Kitty Hawk were traipsing out of the store with black bags stuffed full of trainers, tee shirts, training pants and probably many other things that I've never even heard of, let alone would ever need. Since they were all, with some notable exceptions, roughly the size of a Chelsea Tractor, I now know why I can't buy sports gear in my size. Even if I were to try. Kitty Hawk leaves on Tuesday, but Giga Sports (and Pacific Place) will be around for some time yet if the cash crossing their counters today is anything to go by.

coming up next: the sevens

A grim, cloud-ridden day up on the Peak. Need to get out of it soon or we'll begin to rust. On the plan for the day is a trip to Stanley to get some rugby shirts ready for the Sevens, which start on the 18th. The very enterprising guy who runs the sports shirt stall on the back stretch of Stanley Market will be rubbing his little hands in glee as the tournament approaches.

Of course, by the strict traditions of the Sevens, going to Stanley and buying a new starchy replica shirt is really naff. The old hands take great joy in parading in their classic shirts from years gone by, and like to (quietly) sneer at new boys (and girls) who clearly aren't members of the Old Club. The only chance for any credibility will be to dig deep into the Stanley stock to find a shirt from as many years back as you can, subject it to the dirt and wash cycle as many times as you can before M Day to make it look as if you're an old hand. Not easy given the tension between the need to get a comfortably large (in my case, very large) shirt and the inevitable effect of repeated washing on the cheap cotton. Hmm.

There are other ways that the old hands can demonstrate their full membership of the Sevens Establishment. One is conspicuously to wear admission tickets to as many corporate boxes as you can gather. For really-connected old boys, this can get into double figures. Strewn around the neck on multicoloured neck cords, there is a Formula One driver quality to dress as the faithful commute along the Executive Box floor, slapping the backs of similarly-garlanded pals as they all slip in and out of the compact rooms. Squeeze through to the stand if you can and, maybe, take a peek at the game. But don't forget the prime objective: say hello to the people you see every other day in the Hong Kong Club or at Fanling, and (key point) keep drinking.

But drinking is a part of Rugby. And Rugby is part of drinking. And why not? The Sevens brings together these two great stress relievers in one heady concoction. OK, so the streets of Wanchai and Lan Kwai Fong (the latter for the more effete, the former for the serious players) get a bit messy for a long weekend, and taking a taxi for the week afterwards is always an adventure; you can never really be sure that the car you're getting into wasn't the venue for a Sevens Yawn a few days earlier, presenting the new passenger with the kind of evocative memory-jogger that most of us could do without as we go off to work in the morning. Not to mention the fact that you can't get hold of any business contact worth the name in the week running up the event. They are all entertaining colleagues from head office or sister businesses in the region who magically appear for conferences, team building exercises, contract negotiations or performance appraisals with the Regional Director.

So we move into the final two weeks of the Sevens Countdown. Better make sure that I get lots of sleep in (never easy), move onto a (probably tokenistic) health regime - as if you can stave off self-poisoning by eating more fruit - and just clear the diary for the week after. But the first thing, of course, is to make sure that you've got the right shirt ......