Round Two
I answered my mobile phone on Tuesday morning. The voice said: "Daniel, this is Ivan. Do you remember me?"
"Of course I remember you," I responded. "How could I forget?"
It had been a month since our first and only meeting, but the vision of him quickly returned -- his black leather jacket and turtleneck, his boyish cheeks turned rosy from too much wine, his bloodshot eyes, his glass raised toward me, intent to get me as drunk as he was.
Ivan explained that he works for the Zhuzhou City government, and he was wondering if I'd be able to record a propaganda [this word means, basically, "advertising," in Chinglish] message that they would provide to potential foreign investors.
This can only be a disaster, I thought, which led me to reply: "Yes, no problem. When can we meet?"
Half an hour later, I was sitting in McDonald's with Ivan. He bought me a Coke and explained the gig: I'd record a one-hour message, in English, about the Zhuzhou Hi-Tech Development Zone. Another waigoren had already recorded it, but he has "no passion," Ivan explained. "You must get the words perfect and have passion in your voice," he said. "Can you do it with passion?"
A quick look at the script left me no doubt: how could I be anything but passionate about the Zhuzhou New Times Technical Industrial Metallurgical Torch Supply Factory?
This script was all too familiar. The government had hired Mrs. Pi, my colleague in the English Department here, to translate it from Chinese to English. The previous Sunday, Mrs. Pi and I had worked most of the day, and into the night, translating from her Chinglish to my English. This task was endless, and next to impossible. The language was so highly technical, all about heavy industry and machinery, that I didn't even know most of the words in English, let alone Chinese. How to arrange them into coherence?
"Yes, of course I can speak with passion," I told Ivan. We then worked out the details: I would record the message at Zhuzhou's local TV station on Wednesday night, before I left for a trip to Guangzhou later that night.
"We have another matter to discuss, too," Ivan said. He said he had heard that I was interested in interviewing American business leaders in Zhuzhou. "I have discussed this with the city leaders, and they are very excited about it," Ivan said. "We can arrange the time, and I will sit with you as you interview our foreign friends."
Unbelievable. I had mentioned to Mrs. Pi that I would like to meet some American business leaders who have set up shop in the Zhuzhou Hi-Tech Development Zone, just as Ivan said I had. In the subsequent two days, word had spread from Mrs. Pi, a junior faculty member here, to the highest levels of the local government. And the government had issued instant approval, unheard of in China, and dispatched my nemesis to deliver their decision to me.
It was obvious they saw me as their propaganda tool. The city has been granted special status as a high-tech development zone, one of 50 or so in China, and is aggressively courting foreign manufacturing and technology companies. The deal is quite sweet: massive tax breaks for the first five years, modern, reliable infrastructure already in place, a mammoth low-wage workforce, fast transport routes -- by boat, train and truck -- to Shanghai and Hong Kong.
I am fascinated by this situation. I want to meet some of the people behind the foreign businesses here. What's it like, logistically, to move your manufacturing base to a little backwater town in China? What inspires such a move? How does the deal really work -- does the government uphold its end of the bargain? Do you still pay American taxes?
With all the noise in the States about outsourcing, and about the hemorrhaging of American manufacturing jobs abroad, wow, here I am. I'm abroad, in a puny little Chinese city that's doing everything to lure foreign companies -- and thus siphon jobs from America and other Western countries. The story is rarely told from this side of civilization, as there aren't exactly clusters of reporters in most Chinese backwaters. Ah, another advantage of life in Zhuzhou.
Wednesday night came, and Ivan picked me up at my university. As usual, he was dressed in black leather jacket and black shirt, which seems to be the uniform of Chinese yuppies. He was cordial, thanking me for taking the time to help him out, telling me that the city would benefit greatly from my service. He's in his early 30s, has an engineering degree, but is now leading the government's efforts to lure foreign investment here.
We arrived at the studio. Ivan first fetched me a cup of tea and then showed me the government's Flash presentation on a computer. The presentation is very impressive -- pointed, well animated, highly positive without being hyperbolic, thoroughly professional. The announcer's voice, however, was not. By his accent, I guess he's French-Canadian, and, as Ivan said, he suffers from serious passion-deficit disorder. I didn't think it was possible to make the topic sound even duller than it already is, but the guy succeeded in doing just that, his droll voice droning on, without a break in rhythm or pitch.
Watching the presentation made me wonder why I was there. Everything about the project struck me as impressively professional -- the package of benefits offered by the government and the Flash presentation to sell the package. If they had gone upscale on everything else, why would they hire me, an amateur schmuck, to be its voice? I guess it's because I'm one of the few non-Canadian native English speakers in this town. The talent pool isn't exactly deep.
Ivan led me to the recording studio. What a cave. On one side of the room was the TV news desk, shiny and modern, but the rest of the room was chaos. Broken equipment lay everywhere, the green walls were cracked and peeling paint, dust coated the tabletops, lights were busted. I had to shimmy between two obstacles and hurdle a chair just to get to the mike, which was located on a table in the back corner of the room.
"Okay, begin," Ivan said, as the sound guy started the tape. "But there's no light," I said. "How can I read the script with no light?"
Ivan said something in Chinese, raising his voice, and pretty soon four other tech guys appeared in the room, frenetic banter was passed in Chinese between them all and, finally, five minutes later, we had light. "Okay, begin," Ivan said as the sound guy started the tape.
I read the script straight through, for about twenty minutes, with no lapses. I had taught all day in Changsha, and hadn't yet had dinner, and knew that my stomach was about to start roaring, which would cause us to stop the tape and re-record, over and over. Hunger inspired me.
When I finished, we listened to the entire sphiel, which was agony. First, my voice was shot, after an entire day of teaching and being dehydrated, and turned raspy about three minutes into it. Second, my "passion" sounded even more phony than it actually was. I realized that the original guy had it right -- just the facts. My voice would crescendo at the end of sentences, as I read stirring lines about "fiber optic sensing devices, locomotive engine parts supply, and [drumroll please] industrial torch maintenance capabilities."
Worse, I'd pause before Chinese names, showing my unease with them, and deliver them many decibels higher than the words that came before and after them: "Zhuzhou is served by three national highways, two high-volume national rail lines, and easy water supply routes through the [long pause] XIANG JIANG [long pause] river."
Worse still, between every Chinese syllable there would be a pause, and you could see the message flash across my brain: rising tone, now falling tone, now even tone. It sounded like I was sitting up and down atop a brush fire, my voice rising and getting frantic as I stood up to escape the fire, then falling, getting more sedate as I sat down again and then, bam -- back into a rising frenzy as my butt felt the flames, and sought quick escape. In other words, very natural.
Ivan showed me parts of the script that he'd like me to re-record. Most of the mistakes were minor -- I said "million" instead of "billion," for example -- but Ivan wanted perfection. And so the sound guy would back up the tape to the exact spot and I'd say the line over again. This went on for another hour, but finally, mercifully, our session ended at about 9 p.m. "I want to take you for supper," Ivan said.
He listed all the ritzy restaurants in town, and let me choose. "Actually, I want McDonald's," I said. My train to Guangzhou would leave within an hour, and I didn't have time, or patience, to sit through another elaborate Chinese feast. "But, Daniel, I cannot properly show you my appreciation by taking you to McDonald's," Ivan replied.
So we compromised. We would go to Guilinren, the restaurant between McDonald's and KFC that served both Western food and Chinese food. It's the place where I used to go every night to watch the Philippino cha-cha-cha dancers and chef-hatted guitarists. It's also where I met the friends of Ivan's who brought me to dinner with him and his wife, CiCi, a month ago.
The restaurant was deserted, and silent, leaving Ivan and me alone, face to face, with no distractions. I was a bit nervous. Ever since the incident, I've grown more embarrassed by my actions that first night. I've come to learn that my own ignorance of Chinese culture created most of the problems.
Mainly, I got so worked up when he asked me about my salary, which started the battle that lasted the rest of the night. I've since learned that it's a common, acceptable question in Chinese society. Everyone asks everyone their salary, upon first meeting, and it's no big deal.
My hesitation to answer came more from guilt than anything else. I make much more money than my colleagues, and probably a lot more than most of my students' parents, and I'm ashamed of it. It places me squarely in the role I most despise: rich foreigner.
I've learned, however, that revealing my salary brings only respect. In most cases, the Chinese want to make sure that I'm being suitably compensated for being here, and they seem relieved when I tell them my high salary. It produces not envy but pride in their own culture -- an affirmation that they're treating foreigners with the respect, and high pay, they deserve. Now I realize that my passive-aggressive response that night, about making 100,000 yuan a month, seems especially condescending.
Certainly, I haven't forgotten about Ivan's stupid challenges of my manhood, and the sour taste of the night hasn't completely left me, but I realize that it was a situation that brought out the worst in both of us. And now, a month later, we were alone, with a chance to sort things out.
Ivan asked me about my family in America, about past girlfriends, about my coming trip to Guangzhou, about places I've visited in China, about chopsticks, about la jiao, about being a journalist.
I asked him many of the same questions. I learned that he met CiCi, in 1997, on the Internet. They were both young and single, away from their family and friends, starting careers in Zhuzhou City. When they finally met in person, they discovered something quite amazing: they were from the same hometown, in northern Hunan. They had never met there, but here in Zhuzhou City they stumbled into each other, on the Web, and have been hotly in love ever since. "I think it's so romatic," Ivan said, smiling.
My image of him changed dramatically. We talked, eye to eye, for half an hour, as we dug our chopsticks into dried beef, spicy cucumbers, boiled Chinese cabbage and miniature octopi. We each sipped a beer. He looked at me with clear brown eyes. His soft, boyish cheeks were their natural coffee color. He flashed his crooked, nervous grin frequently. In every way, it couldn't have been more different than our first meeting. With one exception.
As I was scavenging the last bits of the dried beef, Ivan paused for a moment, then said, "Daniel, I know maybe it isn't so polite, but I am very interested to know what is your salary. Can you tell me please?"
"Of course I can," I told him, and revealed that I make about 4,000 RMB a month, or 500 dollars. "Oh, that is very good," Ivan said. "I think you deserve it." Then I told him about the poor exchange rate, and how my monthly salary here barely covers my student loan payments in America. "It may seem like a lot to you," I said, "but in American terms, it's actually quite low." Ivan said he understood. Then, I asked him about his salary. He makes 2,000 RMB a month as a government official. "This is an average salary in China," he said.
And that was it. I devoured the few remaining crumbs left on our table and took a final swig of my beer. Ivan paid the bill and paid me 300 RMB for my rubbish recording of the government's message. He thanked me, I thanked him, and we promised to get in touch about our next meeting, when I will interview the foreign business tycoons in Zhuzhou City.
I rode off on the night train to Guangzhou, remembering how worked up I was after my first meeting with Ivan, thinking how foolish that situation was for both of us, being thankful that we had our chance at redemption, looking forward to a long snooze as the train rumbled south.
