chapter 7 - ending

Three days of sloth. I am going nuts. The library has three mangy books, all in Chinese. The only activities seem to be smoking, spitting and playing mah jong in a room full of smokers and spitters. Of course Hamish is in his element. All he does is drink beer and sleep. I’ve never seen anyone sleep so much. The food is disgusting, but at least we can buy biscuits. And huge cold bottles of beer of course. I sit on the sturdiest deck chair I can find, play solitaire, reread books and watch the sea roll by until the sun sets red into the smog.

Remembering a romantic old sailors’ theory that the moon sprang from the Pacific Ocean while the earth was still young, I turn to tell Hamish and see he’s fast asleep and snoring heavily. I look at him and wonder what am I doing? He’s so lazy, a big kid most of the time, shambling around with a smile on his face as if he’s listening to some private joke. I never know what he is thinking. And when I think I do know he comes out with something totally surprising. We don’t have the same kind of sex anymore, passionate and prolonged, not able to keep our hands off each other until exhausted and sweaty. It’s more - controlled.

His suitcase is a mess, an absolute tumble of clothes so that he always looks rumpled in everything he wears. And he never seems bothered by it. He’s lost half his clothing, his toothbrush and his razor. I always have to lend him my things, pick up after him, remind him to replace things. I’m getting tired of it. Truly fed up.

Thank goodness some of the other backpackers are friendly and we have discussions that last for hours, suddenly realizing afternoon has become night. We all drink copious amounts of tea just for the pleasure of getting thermoses filled and using a loo that flushes. Sometimes we play scrabble. If it weren’t for them I’d have no one to talk to. Everyone asks me about Hamish as if he’s the only thing of interest. How do they even know he exists except as a big napping lump? And a presence at dinner of course where he charms everyone and they all laugh and joke with him, telling him how they admire his choice to go back to school, encouraging his newly emerging spirit of adventure. Not one person asks how I feel about his impending exodus. Sometimes I can barely look at him without feeling miserable.

Tonight, our last night, there was a party in lounge #3. I convinced Hamish to stay awake and go, and with high hopes we entered the salon to find a tape player playing slow, bad music that three couples and one single lady were dancing to in a rather cheerless manner. The music was often interrupted by individuals who got up to sing. The Chinese passengers’ love of song is amazing. They will sing at the drop of a hat, preferring Western songs, which is unfortunate because they are terrible singers of Western music. I would have loved to hear local music sung by people who understand it.

“You got me up to see this?”

“It’s our last night on the boat.”

“Oh good they’ve got beer. Would you like one?”

“Why do you always have to have so much beer?”

“There’s nothing else. It’s hot, I’m thirsty and there are only a few more days in which to savour cheap, Chinese beer. I like beer. What’s the problem?”

“Nothing, it’s just that…I don’t remember you drinking this much at home.”

“Maybe you weren’t watching. And I have to get my palate ready for Germany.” He smacked his lips.

“You sound like you’re really looking forward to it.”

“I am. Of course I am. Now that I’ve made the decision I can’t wait to get started. I never felt this way before, looking forward the next phase of my life.”

I don’t know what made me come out with it now. I planned to do this later, to make things easier, to make a clean break. But something inside lashed out. A demon perhaps. Or a malevolent sprite. Or maybe my true self, bubbling up.

“I guess there’s nothing stopping you going over early.”

“Early?”

“Yes, you know, to find a place to live, get sorted out, meet people there, that kind of thing.”

“Well, I don’t need too many days for that. I can probably set up someplace to live pretty easily from England.”

“Oh but wouldn’t you prefer to do it in person now that you know how much fun it is to go to new places?”

“Are you trying to get rid of me?” he asked smiling.

I did not smile back and his own smile faded. “I…I don’t understand.”

“I think it’s obvious.” I did smile then but it felt sickly. “I’ll make it easier for you. You are free. You have no ties.“

He flushed. “What do you mean? Are you feeling ok?”

“I’m fine. It’s pretty straight forward. You don’t have to think of yourself as being in a relationship. You can feel free to meet whoever you choose. Go wherever you want. If you fall in love, then that’s fine. You don’t have to consider my feelings on the subject. We’ll just remain friends.”

I felt my voice wobble at his look but was damned if I’d let him see me back down. I stood up. “I’m going to walk around the deck and watch as we moor in Hong Kong harbour. No, don’t get up. And don’t wait up, I’ll see you in the cabin. I’m almost packed up anyway, so we can go straight from the boat to the airport whenever you are ready.”

He was speechless and I was able to quickly make my escape. I could feel the tears beginning and I wanted them invisible in nighttime darkness, no spectators. I just know he’s going to want to talk about this tomorrow but I am determined to remain silent and just get back home. Then we can go our separate ways. Doing it this way, now, will be so much easier. Prolonging the separation would break me apart in slow pieces. A quick break is best. Then he can get on with his life and I can deal with what I have to. But I wish it wouldn’t hurt so much. I wish I didn’t see the hurt on his face replaying in my head. Maybe I can change airplane seats so we’re not sitting together.

I sat on the edge of a holey wicker chair, feeling awful. I tried to tell myself it’s really relief I’m feeling, that it’s better for both of us. Endeavouring to put tomorrow aside, I watched the approaching lights of Hong Kong sparkle through the darkness. As the night slowly became grey with dawn’s approach I tried to let the city’s beauty calm me.

chapter 7 - tramps on a tramp

The sun was shining as we arrived at the boat, far earlier than most others of course. We sat on our bags and waited for the usual panic. Sailed past customs only having to show our cameras. After all our receipt saving and preparation! Oh well, better this way than the hours of interrogation we had been expecting. I guess the dearth of visitors since the Tiananmen Square event has relaxed some bureaucracies. There were maybe ten other backpackers in what seems to be a half full boat, the rest being Chinese- men in shiny suits and ladies in short skirts with knee high nylons showing beneath.

Our boat looks like a murder took place on it in 1920 and it hasn’t been cleaned since. Rusty and decrepit. The few wicker deck chairs almost all have large holes in the seats preventing one from actually sitting in them. The swimming pool is a square cement hole in the stern, empty of water but full of brown and green sludge, of interest to a marine biologist but not much to a swimmer. Most of the door locks do not fulfill their purpose, nor do some of the window hatches. Fabric on the indoor chairs is faded and torn, with grubby lace antimacassars hinting at thousands of greasy heads. The air is forlorn. It’s perfect. Our cabin has three bunks, but we’re the only ones in it. We even have a porthole. There are three sinks, a loo and a shower, ceramic mugs with lids and piping hot water in three of those amazing Chinese thermoses. Stiff white sheets and scratchy blankets tucked mercilessly into bunks. As luxurious to us as any cruise ship could ever be. We have three days on a slow boat from China!

chapter 7 - Private Lives

Our last day on Chinese soil and I'm embarrassed to admit I'm kind of looking forward to leaving. Travelling in China, on our own and not on some tour, is hard work. We’re used to the heat and humidity now, but the climate still tires us. And this whole thing with Hamish. Soon enough he will be leaving and then I will really be alone. I feel sapped of energy.

Tonight we are treating ourselves to a stay at the Peace Hotel, famous for having accommodated Noel Coward while he wrote “Private Lives”.
I feel out of sorts and on the way up to our room I look at Hamish and without thinking say, “When we get to Hong Kong, why don’t you cut your hair? It’s too shaggy.”

He ruffled his unruly mop. “I kind of like it like this.”

“Well I think it looks juvenile.”

He looked at me surprised. Which is how I feel too. God, I sound like my mother! Why am I saying this stuff?

Our hotel room is shabby, with a soft bed and dirty walls, looking just like any Western styled hotel or motel in any small town in any country. But to our eyes it seems opulent. There is a real bathroom all to ourselves! Warm water! A reading lamp that works! A TV with an English speaking news station! Our own key! Soap! A window!

We can lie around naked and talk freely to each other and I try to make myself enjoy it. We had a lukewarm bath, made love because we could, and lay on the bed, occasionally saying “Do you remember?” Or “What about that day?”, remembering all the things we’ve seen in the last few weeks. I wanted only to smile at the memories added to our relationship but my mind instead goes to the image of Hamish going away and what that would mean. Our conversation ran out after an hour or so and I lay back on the bed, feeling the hot air settle on my skin and looking at the peeling ceiling.

I persuaded him to go dancing downstairs in the evening. I have been wanting to escape curious eyes for weeks but now desire to get among other people. After all we've done we can only talk for an hour? That's not good! The room held a tired band playing tunes that sounded as dusty and worn as the furniture. Several men came up to ask Hamish if they could ask me to dance, which he found vastly amusing. After dancing they would grab my hand and rush me back to our table, thanking both Hamish and me for the pleasure. All very courteous.

After an hour of me dancing and him drinking beer after beer he asked me to put him out of his misery and let him go to bed. I felt put out - he hadn't danced wiht me himself once! I just silently got up and led the way back to the room. Almost everything he does now makes me feel a bit resentful.

Even though they are worn and shabby the bed sheets are clean and its a treat to lie on clean sheets again. Hamish has told me I clutch at the sheets and pull them tightly to my chest, not letting go for anything. I guess I’m still not totally used to sharing my bed. Maybe it's a sign not to.

chapter 7 - due to repeat?

I cried in the night. Couldn’t stop. This morning I realized it’s been exactly nine years since Andrew died. Well of course. That’s why I mentioned his name yesterday. Somewhere deep inside me this anniversary was swarming around in my sub-consciousness. Nine years. If I were in a fairy tale I would die today. Only now I don’t want to.

Or at least I didn’t a few days ago. Now I’m not so sure. Hamish and I practically said nothing to each other the rest of yesterday. Will I ever be truly whole again? Something really did die inside me that day nine years ago. For so long, I was always able to squash those feelings that welled up inside me, pushing them back down again under the surface. With so many years of practice I’d gotten good at it. Then I met Hamish, and as soon as I started to feel a bit, everything broke apart. I cried more, I angered more. Maybe Sophie was right, my avoidance of grieving meant I hadn’t properly grieved in the first place. How awful having to face everything I’d spent so many years avoiding!

And yet, my feelings for, Hamish, which opened such a chasm of pain, gave me so much soothing comfort too. If it wasn’t for Hamish I would never have been able to get past my past and feel anything again. The first time I could talk about Andrew and not cry shocked me. Hamish always encouraged me to let everything out, tears and all, to talk about that part of me buried in denial. And now, Hamish is going away from me. Oh lordy, I can’t bear the thought of going through something like that again!

chapter 7 - silk over thorns

Today we visited a silk factory, hearing a rumble and following it to a cavernous room where silk thread wound down from foot long spindles onto the warp and weft sides of looms. Middle aged ladies nimbly moved these back and forth as the looms juddered and clattered, with results both tawdry and magnificent. A heap of thread ends lay on the floor where they positively glowed. I’d have loved to buy a length of fabric but everything is made for the overseas market, the cost being prohibitive for locals. Now that’s sad.

Afterwards we tried Dragon Well Tea, for which Hangzhou is also known, and explored ‘Xi Hu’. Every Chinese city has a ‘West Lake’, but this one is perhaps the most famous. As we passed a little gazebo, our attention was caught by an old man making wicker brushes and little hand brooms. Such speed over intricate work must tax elderly eyes and hands, but each little broom was perfect, a piece of art. Hamish started the bargaining dance.

“Are you buying that for your place or mine?,” I asked him as he emerged nearly as triumphant as the seller and he handed me his lovely prize. I immediately regretted breaking our self-imposed taboo.

“I was kind of thinking it might be for our place.”

“We don’t have a place. You are going to Germany and I am staying in London.” I couldn’t stop myself, the words came out.

“But when we are done, we’ll get a place. Wherever we want. Wherever we choose.”

“Unless something changes.”

“Well of course. Change is good. That’s what you taught me. Choose our own destiny. Do whatever we want.”

“Glad I’ve added something positive to your life.”

“What’s wrong? You seem out of sorts. If you don’t like the broom I can give it to my granny.”

“It’s not about the broom. I love the broom. I just don’t know why you are talking about our place when for two years, maybe three, we’re going to be apart.”

“But only physically. There will be visits. And I promise I will phone you at least every week if not oftener.”

“But you won’t be there.”

“No, but I’ll imagine I am. Come on, buck up. You know how much I hate my job, and how little scope it has. This degree will mean I can build towards a future. Where we can be together.”

“I don’t know. It sounds like you are pretty happy to go your own way without me.”

“Oh now, I don’t feel that way at all. Are you still mad because I didn’t talk it over with you first? Ok I’m sorry about that. I know that I sometimes I make snap decisions. I'm not used to having anyone else around who is part of my decisions. I promise I will try to do better at communicating.”

“How about trying communicating period? And don't say 'it's a guy thing'. Andrew never seemed to have any trouble doing it.”

There was beat of silence. I bit my lower lip. How did that come out?

“Well, I can’t compete with Mr. Perfect now can I? All I can do is learn from the master.”

Hamish smiled a smile that was not quite a smile and I regretted my remark. I gave him a hug, which was probably a little halfhearted. He stiffened and I backed off.

chapter 7 - internal and external explorations

Having a few days to spare we took a trip to Hangzhuo, famed for silk and scissors. Our challenge began with trying to get a train ticket though. At the station we waited in a long queue, shuffling ahead every so slowly. When we got to the wicket, the person behind it took one look at us and closed the window, pointing to another window. No amount of words from us or the people behind us could make it open, although we noticed that once we were well entrenched in another line the original window opened again. Everyone in the place stared and pointed at us, laughing out loud at our clothes and hair. Two or three weeks ago this was reasoned away as being normal behaviour in a place that never saw Caucasians, but after six hours in this cramped room, with the queue-window performance happening a second and then a third time, I felt like crying. I am so tired of being stared at and pointed at as if we were some kind of freaks. People pretend they don’t understand us even when it’s obvious they do. The only time anyone ever shows kindness is when they want to practice English. I lecture myself that this is what it must feel like for some of those who are visible minorities in my own country and I vow to be more helpful to those I meet in future.

We finally got our ticket, arrived and found the next challenge was finding a room, having taken a bus to the only hostel we knew of and finding it doesn’t exist. After wandering around for three hours we saw a sign tacked to a light standard that read ‘Zhejiang Guest House’. We followed this promising prospect up to a sort of compound full of cement shacks, inexplicably numerous outside water taps and broken vehicles. We looked at each other in dismay and approached an old man gardening, who motioned us further up the hill. There we found grass, trees, gardens and several square industrial looking buildings. It looked like it could be a university except there was not one person around. This is not only strange in China but eerie. There’s never no one around.

We eventually found a sort of reception hall in one of the flashier buildings and were efficiently directed to dormitory rooms in building number 6. Along the walkway to building 6 were cunning litter bins and curious signs written in both English and Chinese with varying degrees of spelling accuracy: “Consultancy for Curing of Bald” and “Rotating Restaurant Hotel with Bussness Centre in it”, and my personal favourite “Honour to those who practice Hygene, Disgrace to those who don’t”.

At building number 6 we followed empty corridors until we found room #15 containing four beds, a thermos of hot water, and silk quilts. The room was enormous and the otherwise empty building echoed with our movements. We were totally overwhelmed. What is this place? It felt like we were in the headquarters of some secret society masquerading as a hotel. It’s like someone built a small town but took its soul away. Beoing miles out of the centre of town, we wandered aroudn outside to see if there was any place to eat and found a restaurant, in building number 5, that was likewise completely empty except for a few female attendants. We awkwardly sat down, were handed substantial menus but it took several tries before we found something actually available – imagine no noodles or eggs! While we were there four Japanese girls came in so thankfully we were not the only ones staying in this vast place. We wonder to which building they have been assigned.

Now having spent a little bit of time in this huge and fascinating country, I remain curious as to how a country with such self-sufficiency, such technical superiority, such advancement in every area for so many centuries, how such a country historically had virtually no interest in exploration beyond its natural borders. Ever. You’d think if Marco Polo actually did come to China as he claimed to there might have been some interest from the Chinese as to where this strange white man came from. But apparently not. Okay, there was a short skirmish in the 15th century, but even that yielded nothing. I can’t help wondering what maps might have looked like if the Chinese had explored beyond their borders instead of only within. Would the Pacific Ocean be placed in the middle instead of the Atlantic?

Of course China was not the only superior culture not to expand. The most expansive culture in the world never even tried to cross the Atlantic. Mind you, there are at least Islamic maps existing, one of my favourite maps of all time being Al-Idrisi’s world map from 1154AD. I must have looked at that map for days all together. And having no map does not mean there were no voyages. Until later, the people who made the journeys did not make the maps anyway. In general, explorations were made by mostly fighting men and mercenaries, not scholars or scientists. Attributes of courage, skill and endurance were ruined by pitiless cruelty. Religious superiority too: Pizarro planned the murder of Peruvian Inca king Atahualpa on a charge of heresy of all things.

I jolted out of my thoughts. Hamish was looking at me with glazed eyes and a fake smile. Oh dear, it looks like I’ve been speaking my thoughts out loud again. How on earth did I get there from here? I shook my head and finished my bok choy.

chapter 7 - we all scream for ice cream

It took us three hours to cross the Bund today, constantly answering questions and feeling more like we were being interviewed. Most of the questions centered around how much it costs to get into an American university, but we were also asked about our home countries. We attracted the inevitable curious crowd of onlookers as well as four police officers, probably ensuring we weren’t spreading evil capitalist doctrine.

In the afternoon we went to Dr. Sun Yat Sen’s residence, now a museum. I told Hamish it was a house. If I told him it was a museum he wouldn’t go. We had to place plastic bags over our shoes before we went in and every room had an old attendant nodding sleepily in a corner. The house was large and cool, full of old photos, rosewood furniture, books and prints. There were airy verandahs and bright sitting rooms and we both thought it looked very livable. We sat in the garden for awhile, but it was hot outside and so we went into one of the hundreds of Shanghai’s confectioneries. Ended up with coconut ice cream balls and a Sprite float eaten in the relative cool of the People’s Park. We sat there lazily watching locals and talking about the museum (which Hamish really enjoyed!), the good Doctor himself and conjecturing whether or not there was any country in the world that did not sell ice cream.

chapter 7 - was Dickens here too?

The so-called English part of Shanghai is a maze of lanes with paving stones and crooked houses all connected to one another. There are overhanging balconies that look medieval. Dingy laundry is strung everywhere, and bikes and carts vie for space on the street. The pavement seems an extension of the home and little old ladies simmer eggs in soy sauce on pavement braziers while children play with firecrackers. I feel like I am walking through a Dickensian China.

chapter 7 - shanghai'd

I don't know quite what I expected to see on this first anniversary of the Tiananmen Square incident or massacre (depending on who you are and what your viewpooint is), but I didn't expect nothing. Absolutely nothing. In fact, the only thing we can tell is perhaps different is that that there are fewer Westerners here and, as a result, queues at customs points are shorter and less stringent than we'd been expecting. We've also been able to find rooms quite easily.


Tourism was just budding here and the country is now feeling an economic change in numbers. We are told to tell our friends how friendly China is and to encourage them to come visit. We are also inundated by young students who are desperate to practice English and find out about where we come from and where we went to school and what our lives are like. Conversation sometimes bends towards the political, but there is little real knowledge or information as the state media has severaly limited details of last year's activity. We hesitate to inform them, as no doubt our own knowledge is gained through Western media, which does its own form of limiting. Crowds gather to hear us converse, and police officials join in, no doubt suspicious of what we are saying. Occasionally they will break up our group and impatiently gesture to us to move along, but it's never serious, as they no doubt are also under orders to be nice to foreigners who are visiting and have money to spend here. We worry more about how the students we talk to may be treated. We want to take their photos, but know it might put them in danger so refrain.


We arrived in Shanghai this morning, and felt so achy from days on a train that we splurged on a taxi to the Pujiang hotel, which ended up being a harrowing drive narrowly missing several local pedestrians and cyclists who didn’t turn a hair. Throughout the ride I wondered if we survived the train only to die in a taxi.

After we checked into our respective dorm rooms we tackled the travel office, located along the Bund. Along the way, we were stopped many times to "practice English", so we arrived a lot later than planned and hoped the office would still be open. Office hours are hard to predict in China - sometimes they are absurdly short and other times people seem to work 24 hours without a break. We see blankets behind desks for occupants to sleep upon, and always, always, the ubiquitous thermos nearby full of piping hot water.


With only one smallish boat leaving the city every week, we knew we needed to get our tickets back to Hong Kong for next week as soon as possible. We eventually arrived at the shabby ‘international travel office’ with one man working who knew absolutely no English and who ignored our Chinese, which we know is at least understandable by now. We mimed our needs. He sat and stared. We pointed at the schedule on his wall. Nothing. After getting nowhere we sat and stared right back at him which he obviously didn’t like a lot because we ended up with our two tickets on a boat that leaves next Thursday.

Normally we prefer to take a different route back to see other streets and buildings but in Shanghai the Bund is the sort of road you want to walk along again and again. We sauntered along it, attracting groups of students again and again. Shanghai is a real port city. Ships’ horns shudder and hoot all the time. Cranes and barges litter both sides of the river. It’s windy, probably a saving grace, for the smog is terrible and the smell of brine mingles unpleasantly with the smell of sewage. But there is a certain style of architecture we haven’t seen elsewhere in China. Of another time. More Western in appearance. Graceful and familiar. And there’s an undercurrent of optimism here. It feels like it’s a city on the brink of big change.

chapter 7 - national pride

I had a dreadful dream about cannibalism in the night. It made me feel quite ill and I lay there feeling queasy. Maybe it was the movement of the train. We’ve been on it 26 hours so far, almost halfway. Frantic music woke us again this morning at 6am sharp, and we steeled ourselves for the necessary visit to the toilet, the worst part of each day. It is utterly foul. No one on this train seems to know how to aim for the hole.

As we rattled along eating biscuits, lying on our bunks across from each other, we talked about this and that. We used to talk about all sorts of things after making love, but bunks on a train are not conductive to that sort of physical activity so we tend to talk less about plans and ideas. We have avoided all talk about Hamish’s plans to go to Germany to study. I know it’s immature but I also figure if I ignore it, then it will just go away and not happen. I’ve avoided the topic for a week now and our relationship has been really fine, wonderful, really wonderful, fun and tender. I’ve almost convinced myself it really was all just talk. Hamish was telling me more about his childhood, when I was startled at one point.

“Wait, you were an ‘ink monitor’? Was this 1972 or 1872? When I was a child we used ball point pens. And I’m older than you!”

“Well, this is Scotland I’m talking about, what do you expect?”

“You’re just playing up this 'Britain is like a third world country' thing aren’t you?”

“Well, people still burn coal in their fireplaces.“

“Yeah, yeah, and there was rationing right through the 50s. I know, I know.”

“And people toast muffins over that same coal.”

“No thank you.”

“Oh couldn’t you just fancy a chip butty right now?”

“I’ve heard of chip butties but I’ve never had one. Exactly what is it comprised of?”

“Big, deep-fried potato chips, butter, white bread.“

“I think I can hear my arteries screaming in agony. Are you going to tell me next that for Christmas you only got a quill pen and a tangerine?”

“I save those stories for telling young children round the fire on Christmas Eve.”

“So you’re the boring old man I've heard about. Good thing children generally have short attention spans. Is there anything about the Scotland of your childhood that isn’t about lard and coal dust and misery?”

Hamish thought a moment before answering. “Well, all the good things are.”