Landing in Changsha airport, the accruing
air mileage weighs heavy on my mind. In only two weeks we will be flying
another short haul to spend a tropical Christmas in Hainan, China’s Hawaii. This trip however, lasting a mere four
days, is serious business, judging by the short-notice departure and sober countenances.
The Leek is here to meet another daughter
of mammon in order that they become good friends. From the little I can gather
from my appalling Chinese, the dads are vague business associates, yet as much
as I ask, finding out what sort of business is like trying to get blood out of
a censored stone. We meet this chortling Santa-buddha hybrid first, matching
his heftily bejewelled hustler rings with a name like Bing Baba or something. I
ask the Leek who he is; she doesn't know the man, but he then hands her two fat
stacks of thousand RMB notes. Dowry. I have never seen a thousand RMB note
before, but I know that just one would suffice to cover my month’s wages. At
the alienating sight of a small girl brandishing these orange wads as if they
were trump cards (and I suppose in some ways they are), I become abruptly aware
that I amongst million, hell, billionaires.
Just before the first extravagant
dinnertime at one of those traditional spinning round tables, and the moment of
the first encounter has arrived; everyone's on tenterhooks. The Leek is prepped
on what she has to say. There are scuffles and peeping from behind a door, and
finally the other wee meimei emerges,
fully decked in Hello Kitty. The girls observe each other sheepishly, and after
a little prodding from the anxious kin, they introduce themselves robotically,
rehearsedly. Applause and relief ensue, followed by yet more dowry: two
bags-full of overpriced plastic pink tack for mademoiselle; they have so much
in common! I suck distractedly on an orange, contemplating how many of my
clothes are from Primark.
At the table, endless beautiful dishes are
served up and everyone digs in, or rather pokes and picks with their
chopsticks. As usual, most of this will end up being thrown away, but who
cares? This is China at its most affluent, and the only thing connecting us to
the salt of the earth is the miniature bowls of rice. Eventually the topic of
conversation inevitably turns to me, being the odd one out. “We’re going to
find you a Changsha nanpengyou,”
snarls the sweaty millionaire. “Hey, how about that guy, he's single!” He
points at the nondescript lad across the table and everyone howls with sadistic
glee. I look down and feel my face reflect the scarlet crab carcass on my
plate.
Finishing up, I wolf down some transparent
slush in a hollowed out baked papaya. Only afterwards do I discover that it was
also worth a month in wages alone, since it was actually yanwo, or edible bird’s nest soup made from swiftlet saliva. Believed
to possess multiple medicinal properties including raising libido, I notice it
was only served to the women and girls. At the news of its cost, I consider
throwing it back up to sell for something more useful and durable, but I suspect
avian drool depreciates in value when peppered with human sick flecks. This whole
situation is mind-blowing to say the least, to someone whose freeganism has
gone from stealing-into-Waitrose-dumpsters-at-night to scrounging-off-China's-nouveau-riche.
The former is probably less corrupt by a mile.
KTV, or Chinese extreme karaoke, is
arbitrary for big events like weddings and golden anniversaries, so the
occasion of a successful new Fauntleroy friendship culminates in a palatial KTV
room complete with performance-purpose imperial staircase that leads to
nowhere. Enduring an hour or so of ear-busting screeches from the happy couple,
I'm finally persuaded to whip out my own classic, on the condition that I'm
accompanied by the kid. I was once told a foreigner can win hearts in China
with a love ballad under her belt, and right now winning hearts seems to mean
winning opulence. It appears to work, because back in our swanky night lodgings
in the city centre I'm shown to my room: a five-star double ensuite with
digitised toilet gimmicks, some of which sound terrifyingly erotic. I decide
this unjustified accommodation, even this whole new existence, however shrouded
in mystery, moral-trafficking and hushed cash exchanges, can only be celebrated
appropriately with a cigarette, nakedly wiggling my bum around the room to loud
music. Sometimes, if I try really hard, I remember I'm actually from Reading.
