Marco Polo complex

Westerners all suffer from the Marco Polo complex. China looms large in our imaginations, at least for the first few trips or years. For a while we are psychologically related to that intrepid Venetian tourist: off to the fabled Orient, alone, just ourselves against the Chinese.

It can honestly feel that way, sometimes because it is: you can be quite alone, surrounded by black hair. Back in the mid 80s I was on a boat (think slave ship, with rows of tatami bunks) for three days, just 300 Chinese and me (and no working toilet: another story). Train trips and walks through night markets, you were alone and you were surrounded.

Sadly, this is less possible now. Western "Big Noses" litter Chinese Asia. We are now less special. We are, though, still a very tiny minority, even in neighbourhoods known to hold many Westerners. Yet there is still one place where we are still frequently alone. The place? Walking on the sidewalk.

On any highway in the West two truckers travelling in opposite directions acknowledge each other as they pass, a small wave, maybe a horn toot. The same is true for motorcyclists and maybe for silver BMW convertible drivers. (When I own one I'll let you know, but for now I can say that it doesn't happen between silver minivan drivers). Two unique entities acknowledging each other's existence amid the ho and hum of everyone else.

So, wouldn't you expect two Westerners walking in opposite directions on the sidewalk to acknowledge each other while passing, a small nod, wink or wave? I used to expect it, can recall when Chinese streets were exotic and seeing another Westerner was, well, almost a happening. But nope, almost never was my glance, nod or grunt acknowledged, or seemingly even noticed. It used to bother me. Why?

I came to blame Marco Polo. Every Westerner secretly (or not so) walks in the footsteps or M. Polo, just him/her versus the vast Cathay sea. Even though this obviously is not true, for a moment walking down the street you are alone and all in sight are the others, romantic, exotic, different. That is of course as long as you don't acknowledge that pesky Westerner walking towards you: waving or nodding at him/her breaks the spell and cheapens your experience. Act like you see nothing and a small part of you is still in the 12th century, an intrepid explorer a long way from home.

Adding the inevitable Asian irony is that this only happens where Westerners are plentiful. Go to a place (if any still exist: sigh) where Westerners are measured in single digits per square mile (or per hundred thousand people) and each is happy to meet and greet another Westerner. When we are truly alone in Chinese Asia, actually living the Marco existence, we are more than happy to acknowledge other Westerners; only when we are not actually alone, when it is safe and we are common, do we act like we are alone, walking in Venetian shoes.

What does this all mean? Who knows? Maybe nothing more than an observation about how we are affected in Chinese Asia by what we bring with us as much as the things we encounter there.

Almost On The List

There are words we never really expect to hear, "You won the lottery," perhaps, and others you hope never to hear, "You're guilty," say. On my way back to Canada from Taiwan a couple days ago I heard the latter type, words I never thought would be directed towards myself. The words?

"If you say another word we will call security." Call security? About me?!? Huh?

It all started with a tight connection from Vancouver to Victoria, and EVA airlines forgetting about daylight savings. The on-screen time on the plane said we'd get into Vancouver an hour early, not so rare when flying with the wind. I blindly set my watch to that time, not doing the math in my head: I'm suffering oxygen deprivation and these people are flying a metal tube with wings across the Pacific, so you'd think they'd understand time.

(Mind you NASA did fly a robot vehicle into the Martian surface after forgetting to convert metic to imperial measurements.)

My original connection was 55 minutes. I think I have now 115 minutes, so was not concerned when my last bag took 45 minutes to appear. Through Customs, drop my bags onto the Air Canada conveyor belt then a leisurely promenade to the B Terminal. Lots of time.

"This flight has left" said the guard, looking at my (Taipei-issued) boarding pass. A crazed look at the wall clock, my watch and the boarding pass and, sh*t, reality sinks in: I missed my flight, and the next one leaves in 35 minutes and it will have my bags on it. I'd like to be on it too.

Run through the Sunday-evening empty airport, looking for a free Air Canada agent. "That flight is full. We'll put you on standby. Ask at the Gate."

Run back to B Terminal. I can't take my liter of Johnny Walker Swing on to the plane? Even though it is a sealed bottle in a sealed bag.* Sh*t. Fine, I'm late. Pour the damn thing out. "Can you hurry up," I asked, "My flight is leaving."

"That is not our concern Sir." Go through the X-ray. Beep. As per instructions I take off my vest: beep. My belt: beep. My shoes: beep. My glasses: beep. Arms and legs spread like a Da Vinci drawing, being 'wanded' up close and personal. Beep, but an acceptable one. Glasses back on but clutching beltless pants and in stocking feet, hear "Could you open your briefcase Sir?"

I make another sarcastic (polite, no swearing, just thick sarcasm) comment. I suppose they didn't like the earlier dangerous shoes, terrorist glasses and useless government bureaucrats comments, all interspersed with, "Please: I am in a hurry." I knew there was nothing suspicous in my briefcase, they knew there was nothing: it was obvious that they were just slowing me down on purpose, a penalty for not treating them with the obsequious deference they expect.

I am proud of my ability to choke back that next comment, and the next and the next, silently tying my shoes and putting my belt on prior to a mad dash to the gate. Being put on a list compiled by airport security, wow. Certain travel hell to the end of time, or the Bush Government anyway.

No matter where I fly in Canada, Victoria, Vancouver, Calgary, Toronto, there are the X-ray Nazis, taking their sweet time, joking with each other while finding the most nit-picking, petty reasons to piss off the traveling public.

I am all for airplane security, but wonder just what a terrorist could use my glasses for, especially on a 15 minute flight to Victoria.

BTW, I made the flight. My luggage did not. Maybe the X-ray Nazis know the baggage handlers?

Hello World

My 20+ years of wrinkles on my China hand make me a veteran of all sides of the Chinese-Western cultural divide. Not an expert, not someone who understands the Chinese--anyone who says he/she understands the Chinese ... doesn't. This includes Chinese.

I have learned a few things along the way though, and make a fair living helping Westerners and Chinese work/live together, and helping Chinese succeed in modern, performance-oriented offices. The blog will offer glimpses of what the Chinese-Western divide looks through my glasses, some posts for Chinese, some for Westerners and some for both. Posts might be about business, about culture, about what being a 1-man firm in small-town Canada but working Chinese time zones is like.

Two qualities I will strive for are humor and making readers think in new ways, my hope being to dispense over time a pair of cross culture glasses, letting readers 'see' how others do. Oh, and I suppose it would be nice if the posts were well-written and interesting too. No promises, other than to do my best.

Finally, this is my first post to my first blog. To paraphrase CSY at Woodstock, "I am scared shitless." And yes, I am that old.

Cheers, Greg