Lockhart Road
Cultural Attache
- Mar 26, 2013
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- #176
SCENE 57-
(Flashback - Canton, now Guangzhou - late September 1980.)
Voice of Narrator:
My first sight, up close, of Communist China, Red China, is a huge mural of Hua Guofeng, Mao’s temporary death-bed-anointed successor, covering a wall in the terminal at White Cloud Airport in Canton - ‘Guangzhou’ since the recent introduction of pinyin. Hua is already out, care-of the political engineering of Zhou Enlai’s protege, Deng Xiaoping.
1997 was a date in the future that hadn’t been talked about with any sort of earnestness until Jock the Sock - Governor Sir Murray MacLehose - went to see Deng in Beijing the year before, in 1979. The last leg of Jock’s return journey to the crown colony came care-of the inauguration of the no-stop-at-border ‘Through’ Train from Guangzhou to the KCR (Kowloon-Canton Railway) terminus with its landmark clock tower (tower is still there but not the rest of the structure) next to the ‘Star’ Ferry pier, TST.
Deng had issued the unprecedented invitation to a British governor to come to China and talk to him for a specific purpose. He wanted to hear ideas on how Hong Kong intended to help the PRC make fast progress with its Open Door Policy. Jock, on the other hand, travelled to the Chinese capital with something quite different, something selfish, on his agenda: to request on behalf of HSBC an extension to the NT Lease. He got, and he felt, the cold shoulder, this despite Deng’s physical handicap, his duck’s disease; Jock the Sock at six feet three towered over China’s diminutive firebrand who could turn iceberg at the drop of the wrong word.
Nevertheless, the ogre of ‘1997’ was, like Frankenstein’s monster, brought to life by greedy, obsessed human hands steered by clumsy human minds. Jock’s usurping of his invitation to Beijing that he’d done nothing to earn was a colonialist imperialistic British act of loud, dumb arrogance.
It made ‘1997’ into a four-digit word ... rather than an item of low-volume, step by step, behind-the-scenes negotation.
As a result the Brits would get what they deserved - out of Hong Kong.
But that inevitability wouldn’t truly manifest itself until 1984, when Five Feet Deng Xiaoping fiercely, frighteningly slapped a non-negotiable deadline on the future. Get those ‘leases’ cancelled, legally, by 30 September - or else.
Now back to 1980. Come late September that year, Deng’s Open Door is the motivator behind my twenty-minute early morning flight from Kai Tak to White Cloud Airport, Guangzhou on a shaky undersized CAAC British-made flying noise machine called a Trident. (CAAC = Civil Aviation Administration of China, AKA ‘China Airlines Always Crash’. Today it is Air China.)
My two travelling companions are Michael Amalfitano - Italian-American, from Boston, president of Youngblood Industries, makers of NASA quality fibreglass printed circuit boards - and John Chan, sales engineer, Arnholds, fluent in putonghua, Cantonese and English. Arnholds have been importing the Youngblood product in bulk for the high-end Hong Kong electronics and OEM consumer appliance manufacturing industry.
Our hosts, Great Wall Enterprises, we will discover that night, are a wholly-owned subsidiary of the People’s Liberation Army.
After making it through the arduous and archaic customs and immigration procedures, we have a few hours to kill looking around Guangzhou before catching our early afternoon flight to Beijing. It is during those few hours that the aforementioned incident takes place.
Setting:
A people’s park with in its centre a rotunda, in which a see foo (Cantonese) an expert, a master, is leading a class of middle-aged people, teaching qi gong - the art of strength, energy, breathing and balance. The see foo is over sixty, is perhaps seventy years of age, perhaps more, it’s impossible to tell.
Mike Amalfitano, John Chan and LR pause their tour of the park, stand about fifty metres away, and watch.
AMALFITANO (suddenly): “I want to do that.”
ROAD: “You what?”
CHAN: “You want to challenge the teacher at qi gong?”
AMALFITANO: “Yeah!”
Mike is a nuggety fellow, about five feet six. For his college he played serious American Football, Gridiron, whatever. A disastrous knee injury, which still has him limping at times, ended his football career and had him concentrating on studies and business. Mike is forty years of age.
As John Chan heads for the rotunda, aiming to put Mike’s request to the see foo, LR is looking in all directions, checking every person in the park, seeking out the Gong An Bu, the Public Security Bureau, the local police, who surely will have been on their tail. Every foreigner in China is being closely monitored as at late September 1980.
LR is privately having a panic attack. He visualises an embarrassing scene in the making, the arrest by the secret police of Mike Amalfitano, whose safety he is responsible for, John Chan and himself. He is not yet aware that they are the guests in China of the PLA, is unaware that the plain-clothes police who surely are not far away, would be adhering to their orders to keep their distance from these special visitors and just watch, record and report.
What the watchers would report, translated, might read something like this:
Dark foreigner is admitted by qi gong master as a temporary student.
Foreigner takes off his neck tie and jacket, hangs on back of chair, rolls up shirt sleeves. He is rich. Rich tie, rich jacket, very rich Swiss watch, rich shirt, very rich Italian shoes. To be rich is glorious, Supreme Leader Deng has said. Dark foreigner is very glorious.
Rest of class stand in circle around them as master and foreigner face off, reach out, seize each other by both shoulders, brace legs apart, and push hard as they can into each other, each trying to move the other off balance by using arm and full body strength, direction, timing, endurance and ability, and speed to capitalise on any weakness and manoeuvre opponent off balance.
After ten minutes, master and foreigner mutually call contest a draw, and disengage.
All students applaud as foreigner grasps hand of qi gong master with both his own hands in sign of high respect and honour.
This was excellent demonstration of goodwill between China and the West. (See secret photos taken.)
Supreme Leader Deng’s Open Door Policy is a great success.
Real winner was our qi gong master who was too diplomatic to be seen to so easily defeat the foreigner (who, our ears detected, is an expert at American Football scrum and ruck, and forty years younger than qi gong master).
No action recommended.
AMALFITANO: “That’s a lesson on how you turn your opponent’s thrust to your advantage. If you can pivot and catch him out, that is. I couldn’t. He is very, very good. He countered me every time. Very, very fit. What lovely people. Thanks for that, John. That was worth the trip by itself.”
ROAD (glancing at the see foo resting in a whicker arm chair being fanned by his students): “I think he was going easy on you, Mike.”
CHAN: “He’s only sweating to give you face, Mike.”
AMALFITANO (laughing): “Let’s go get our plane. I just hope it won’t be another Limey little piece of shyte Trident.”
On the plane - a Boeing 707 to Mike’s relief - he discusses his tactics with LR.
AMALFITANO: “The secret to it is to try to add your adversary’s momentum to your own. Catch him by surprise and get him off balance.”
ROAD: “Take advantage of your adversary?”
AMALFITANO: “Well put. Take advantage, in fact, of adversity. It applies to a lot of different situations. I apply it in business as much as I can get away with it.”
ROAD: “Take advantage of adversity. I’ll remember that. You’re not Chinese by any chance?”
AMALFITANO: “Pure Italian. All the way back to Marco Polo.”
At this point two cabin crew appear, pushing a trolley with an urn and porcelain mugs printed with the CAAC emblem.
STEWARDESS: “Tea or coffee?”
ROAD: “Coffee, please.”
STEWARDESS: “Sorry, no coffee.”
ROAD: “Okay. Tea, please.”
STEWARDESS: “Milk and sugar?”
ROAD: “Both, please.”
STEWARDESS: “Both milk and sugar?”
ROAD: “Yes, please.”
STEWARDESS: “Sorry, no milk.”
ROAD: “Okay. Just sugar.”
AMALFITANO: “Obviously a rehearsed routine.”
ROAD: “Very rehearsed. Welcome, world, the door to China is open.”
Voice of Narrator:
Though the qi gong lesson in the Guangzhou people’s park, considering its future application, is of main relevance to this docudrama, I have to add a paragraph or two about what happened in Beijing, to put it all in context.
The three of us check in to two rooms in the old red-brick Peking Hotel, with miniature balconies overlooking the Avenue of Everylasting Peace. John and I share. The first five-storey wing of the hotel was completed in 1915 as the Grand Hotel de Pekin, the most recent wing in 1954.
Our first encounter with our hosts, Great Wall Enterprises, is at dinner in a private room off the hotel lobby, ground floor. It is my introduction to Kweichow brand mou tai, brewed from sorghum. In no time I’m washing it down with beer, the taste of which is rendered into water.
Then our real host arrives and is shown to the chair at the head of the table.
He is in the uniform of a PLA general.
He is as big as the PLA itself. He is a replica of Mao. A dead ringer.
Mao is dead, has been for four years, supposedly.
Next morning we’re driven in a mini bus north to the Great Wall at Badaling - the well-worn, largely untouched-up section of the Great Wall at Badaling. There are very few people around. The quiet, the absolute quiet ... it is all-encompassing ... on this sort of quiet history transports itself, rising up like a tangible mist out of deep valleys on either side of the Wall, its rocks powerful, its slopes flush with flowers of violent purple.
This section of Wall dates to the Ming Dynasty, early 1500s. It is where, 35 years later, the SAASTA lads on tour would perform their haka.
We climb to the farthest watchtower, the one on the horizon far away. The steps are huge and high. Massive blocks of stone cracked and grooved with the centuries that have passed since they were manhandled into place.
Mike Amalfitano does not hesitate. He climbs with us. He does not say one word about the pain from his busted knee that is killing him. We make it to the farthest watchtower, step to its highest stone, take in the 360-degree panorama. It’s an experience never to be forgotten, and it never has been.
Communication -
I still see Mike making a long-distance call to his company in Boston on an old Bakelite phone in an old phone booth off the old Peking Hotel lobby: “Yes, Peking. I’m calling from Peking ... yes Peking, China!” Doubtless the Ministry of State Security, PLA Intelligence and the Gong An Bu are listening in. I stand not far away, in earshot, a laugh on my face, watching, enjoying. I’d liked Mike on sight; three days together in the Middle Kingdom before it changes forever, never to be the same China, is making us pals for life. I still think about him often. I’m thinking about him now.
A truly great, fearless, live life to the fullest sort of guy, who showed me how to take the initiative minus hesitation - who advised me to look adversity in its ugly eye ... and use it against itself.
SCENE 58-
(Flash forward to Tuesday in May before the 2018 AFL match in Shanghai.)
Setting:
Pro Drinkers Corner, Happy Valley, Hong Kong.
ROAD: “Communication. The lost art thereof. I can remember when you had to book international calls forty-eight hours plus in advance. I can remember, too, when there were only two phone lines connecting the Dong Fang in Guangzhou with Hong Kong. I stayed there overnight returning from Beijing in 1980. In those days there was an excuse for a communication delay. There has never been an excuse for non-communication.”
ROBBINS: “Still nothing I take it?”
ROAD: “Not a dicky bird. You know what I say about that.”
ROBBINS: “If you hear nothing ... “
ROAD (in Red Adair mode): “ ... nothing’s effing-well happening. Hear that?”
ROBBINS: “Loud and clear. What’re you drinking?”
ROAD (depressed): “The sound of nothing is nothing to celebrate.”
Theme ‘music’:
WARNING: DO NOT LISTEN TO THIS BY ACCIDENT!
This is what LR has in his head every waking moment of his life these days - at times it is softer; at times it is like this, minus a volume control: very loud; other times, most times, it is in between.
He doesn’t recommend it. What he does ask is for those who are lucky, without realising it, not to suffer from tinnitus, certainly this degree of bilateral tinnitus, to please try to feel for those who do. Except LR. Don’t worry about LR. Sure as hell, he doesn’t.
(Apologies for the typos beyond LR’s control in the youtube video warning.)
Voice of Narrator:
What this suggests is that I have a Chinese dragon inside my skull. As I’ve mentioned, colloquial myth has a dragon asleep inside every mountain. I have one that woke up, exited its mountain, got lost, reduced itself to the size of a speck of dust, flew up my nose, curled up inside my middle ear, and stuck fat. As I’ve aged, my dragon’s bedchamber has aged in parallel, and the quality of my dragon’s slumber has suffered. It, my resident dragon, has been gradually awakening.
NB: Chinese dragons do not age. They are immortal.
But I’m not. I am less immortal every day. And now, as at mid May 2018, my Chinese dragon is wide awake, inside my head, wondering what to do next.
ROBBINS: “What happens now?”
ROAD: “What are the issues?”
ROBBINS: “Make a list. Not necessarily in order of priority.”
ROAD: “No China director on the Club board. Not one.”
ROBBINS: “Check.”
ROAD: “Still no China Committee set up at Alberton.”
ROBBINS: “Check.”
ROAD: “Nobody full time on the ground, in China or here.”
ROBBINS: “Check.”
ROAD: “That’s three. There are four blunders.”
ROBBINS: “No executive in full and permanent charge of commercial activity ... of commercial success in China.”
ROAD: “Yes. Not this ‘China engagement’ stuff, vital as it is to set the scene. It’s only half the strategy. Less than half. All we get is fly-in, fly-out. It’s never been the right way to make proper consistent progress in China. I’ve known that ever since my first visit to China in 1980. But what do we know? We’ve been up here for three-quarters of a century between the two of us. Not long enough, or so it seems. Daryl Ander is right. He’s spot on. PAFC are proving they’re not actually sincere re China. The big sponsors can see it, can feel it, and that’s why they’re giving Port Adelaide a wide berth. It’s so bloody ... frustrating!”
ROBBINS: “Settle down, Red.”
ROAD: “Go rock yourself in the treetops.”
ROBBINS: “We have to get Daryl on the PAFC Board.”
ROAD: “Just for starters.”
ROBBINS: “How do we get it done?”
LR looks at him. He doesn’t have the answer. Not yet.
SCENE 59 - One week later plus an hour.
Robin has gone home. Night has fallen. LR is alone with his thoughts.
Voice of Narrator:
The second match at Jiangwan Stadium has been played and won. Not a word has reached the Hong Kong-based China advisors of PAFC re State Net. Not a peep, not a participle, not a punctuation mark.
Silence reigns ... except for my tinnitus, which you’ve now had a taste of. In the audio no-contest called Alberton dead air it’s more severe and more bilateral than ever ... worse than compulsorily wearing earphones emitting the whine of a non-stop Dwayne Russell match commentary.
Okay ... maybe not as torturous as that.
I take up my next Heineken. Something prompts my mind to rewind, back to Mike Amalfitano’s lesson at that people’s park in Canton, late September 1980, thirty-seven point five years before: Take advantage of adversity.
Take Advantage of Adversity.
I’m still pondering this when my beer ends and the next one arrives. By the time that beer is down and its successor is in my fist, I know what I must do. The alcohol has unlocked the strategy chamber in this brain of mine. My personal dragon, inside my head, maybe had something to do with it.
This must be done by me on my own. It has to be seen that way, to protect Robin. Because this must, to give it any chance of coming off, be done by starting quietly, then building up to a crescendo, which means potentially uncomfortable noise ... something I’m well versed in.
I hunker down to think more deeply. Someone turns the hi-fi up loud. It suits my mood. Drowns the tinnitus. Enhances the deep think, the strategy think.
Theme music:
‘I Think I’ll Just Stay Here And Drink’ (Merle Haggard)
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