I’m in the heart of old colonial Canton, on Shamian Island. Shamian is on the southern tip of Guangzhou city centre, right on the mighty Pearl River; about two hours drive north of Hong Kong. The Chinese had it back again in the early Twentieth Century. The island is about 800m long and 400m wide. The river is about 500m wide, and the water looks very brown. It was “leased” to the British and French in the Nineteenth Century to keep them quiet after the Europeans won the Opium wars. So the British occupied three quarters of the island in the west, and the French, the other third and a half in the east. The Chinese were forbidden from entering then, and the British guarded the one bridge with Sikhs and the French used Africans at the other.
What can I say about Shamian? It’s a bit like sitting down to dinner at Chung Ying Garden Restaurant in Birmingham’s Chinese Quarter, only to find half-way down amongst all the fried this-and-that, is spaghetti bolognaise; delicious but why? Shamian is like that. Walking the small but perfectly formed streets, it is reminiscent of western and central European “old quarters”. It could be old Bucharest, Basle am Rheine, or dare I say it, Westbourne Rd in Edgbaston, or parts of Moseley. C’est tres chic and bemusing. Definitely an anachronism to imperialism. The leafy roads are filled with old, gated Victorian-styled villas, grande hotels and small chapels and churches. The old buildings have plaques on commemorating what they once where and when they were built. So amongst the existing European and rest-of-the-world consulates which were once Imperial Maritime, Customs offices and banks, are banks, art galleries and Starbucks, which were once consulates, if you get me. No? Go back then and try again.
I’m stopping at the White Swan, which is a rather ugly looking 1980’s hotel, but it’s convenient and quite posh inside. The room is costing £70 for the night, excluding meals, so I made sure I had a big breakfast this morning before leaving, and therefore can skip lunch. I wouldn’t recommend the hotel as a place to say. It’s not worth the money.
Actually, I couldn’t have picked a worse time to come here. The weather is….well shite actually; a murky 19C, drizzly and humid. In fact the last four weeks have been rather piss poor, murky and on the whole, definitely below par. But I’m British, and at home here amongst the sogginess of it all. I won’t let the locals see it get to me; best side outwards, and all that. Added to the damp is the fact that Guangzhou will be hosting the Asia Games over the summer. We’ve all seen the effort that the Chinese put into the Olympics in 2008 (yes, two years ago). Well that was just a practice for what they are doing here in Guangzhou, a warm-up for the 1500m. I reckon if I stood still for a minute, I’d be cemented and block-paved in, or plastered into a wall and painted. They are on a mission, taking no prisoners and they won’t fail. Every street on this island is being dug up and re-paved, and you are having your building renovated mate whether you like it or not. Unfortunately half the buildings are under scaffold (of bamboo, not joking) and tarpaulin, to appear resplendent no doubt, a week before the games start. In summary, it’s raining cats and dogs, and the place is a building site, so don’t ask me to organise your holiday schedule.
Another nice aspect here are the statues adorning the street and park entrances. They are recent, bronze and quality. Some are of individuals and others are showing small groups and scenes. There’s the old generation meeting the young generation and east meeting west. Very nice, and I’ve taken lots of pictures of these good folk at play.
Poignantly, the island somehow does good business as a child adoption centre. My hotel adjoins the American Consulate and there are a lot of yanks here, sorry American cousins. I’ve seen towards a dozen American couples with young Chinese children (from babies to eight year olds. Some of them have more than one Chinese child and I can’t help overhear that the older kids speak with American accents, calling their Caucasian elders “mum” and “dad”.
I had a midday pause in the small Shamian Park, once called Queens Park, at Lucy’s Biergarten, and sat at a table underneath a Paulaner Munchen parasol. There were families of sparrows here, nibbling at crumbs on the floor, just as in the Basler Garten. It reminds me of many a summer with my brother-in-law’s family, sat drinking long beers in the shade, away from that city’s summer heat; whilst Vicky and Issy feed the tame spatzes. Today, I refrained from a Hefe Weissen, ordering instead a litre of iced lemon tea, which came in a jar (£2), and sat and watched the world go by, namely labourers (quite often women) and middle aged Americans doting on their Chinese kids. I don’t have a problem with international adoption. In a loving relationship, there’s a strong sense of having to produce something (not for all, I appreciate); and in an unfair world, people faced with their own challenges, chose their own way forward. I caught the look on one foster mum’s face. She had a baby in one of those front sacks on her chest, looking down at her new little one. Her face said it all; so these emotions prevail, transcending all qualms and doubts.
At 4pm I fell to a Cappuccino Venti and a Tiramisu at Starbucks on Shamian Dajie (Boulevard). All very nice, but the pick-me-up missed Mama Iris’s vital splash of amaretto. Starbucks is like in the UK, welcoming, faux and a place to chill. It enclosed mainly Chinese clientele (one group of six seemed to be having a seminar), with a few Europeans on their laptops (computers not dancers). The Dajie is the main road running left to right, and then north to south run five roads beautifully entitled Shamian One Road, then wait for it….Shamian Two Road, ending up with…..could it be….?
I stumbled into a gift shop and got talking to Jenny and her husband. She closed the door behind me as I walked in, and commenced with the most charming soft sell. She beguiled me with her interest in England and said she was very happy to be able to practice her English with such a young and rich man. As I headed for the door, regaining my confidence I walked into her trap: the vote of sympathy. She told me that the refurbishments outside in the street were having a toll and that they had been going on since November. Hence I suddenly found myself leaving with a bag enclosing the two beautiful full-length “silk” (probably viscose) dresses I had bought for girls, one red with dragon embroidery and one blue with flowers. She told me that as I was her first customer that day, and it was customary for that lucky person to get a very good deal. So go on, how much? I’m embarrassed to say actually. It was charity, reverse robbery (no, not the chicken). But I got a bargain. But don’t tell the family. If you ever get to Guangzhou, look up Jenny’s Place, and be prepared to be softened up by this sweet, smiling thirty-something who gets to work stripping you of any resistance to parting with your cash. She is a black-belt in rapport and a delicate ninja in lightening your wallet.
For dinner, I dined at La Dolce Vita, a nicely furnished restaurant run by Italians, and had my traditional Calzone pizza. I couldn’t order a Perroni, as they had no Italian beers, so I settled for a San Miguel. The beer and the pizza came to £10. The restaurant was full of Chinese families and a few westerners. The Cantonese are very big on families and on food, and always seem lively and happy together. It was nice to sit and watch all this going on and it reminded me of those closest at home, and the times we have dined out together.
Then it was back to Lucy’s garten for a Heineken. Upon returning to the White Swan a young-ish tom timidly approached and said hello. And here I am again, pouring all this out, for whatever reason. If I can’t talk to someone, at least I can write it down. The blank page is my friend at times like this and I’m in a friendly, writing mood. It’s a document for the future I suppose, and when I’m quiet, too quiet, it’s a re-assurance for the frau that there is something going on inside. Off now for a drink.
It’s nearly midnight and I’ve just returned from the Hare and Moon Bar downstairs in the lobby. I’ve had a couple of Daiquiris in the bar (£10) and some nuts. The clientele were mostly young Chinese couples and a couple of English old boys. A corpulent lady sat at the piano killing me softly with her songs as I sat wondering what the hell am I doing here. I’ve always believed in Karma, or at least do unto others as you would have them do unto you; so if I have ever upset you in this life or another, then I do apologise. Now will someone please just get me out of here! Looking out of the bedroom window, the promenades either side of the river are lit and there are strobe lights and neon lights attached to the sides and fronts of hotels and restaurants. At night the river cruise boats are lit up, emitting western dance music.
I’m left wondering about Shamian in the context of my own country’s history. When I was taught the subject at school I learned about the bad Vikings and Saxons, the clever Romans, the bad Normans, the bad Germans and the bad communist Russians. I never learned about the bad British. I learned about the Commonwealth and that there was an empire. I never learned about slavery and subjugation. I learned about how Britain re-invented itself as a plutocracy with is monarchy and its democracy. I must have been off school ill that day, when that one hour history lesson gave us an objective and balanced account of our glorious past. I’ll ask my girls what they are being taught about British history. When I see Shamian, I feel quite conned, but then again, what would Hong Kong have been without the British? The succession of Hong Kong back into China increased the GDP of China by over 50%. In hindsight, are the Chinese philosophical about British colonial intervention? Where would India be now without the unifying qualities of its only common national language (English), democracy and orderly bureaucracy?
It’s a grey world or rights and wrongs and lesser evils. It’s not black and white. Does that make me sound like an apologist, a Tony Blair? In summary, I suppose on the micro level we all have to be vigilant, and make sure we do our bit. So keep smiling, and “be kind, because everyone you meet faces a hard battle” (Plato).
