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I just read an Amnesty International report about China. It seems that, despite the promises of improvements in human rights made during the bid for the 2008 Olympics, there are still persistent and serious abuses of human rights. Amongst the many shocking statistics, one struck me in particular – that about 8,000 people are thought to be executed in China each year. That’s 22 EVERY DAY. And that there are 68 crimes punishable by death in China, two thirds of them non-violent crimes.
It made me think back to 1986, when I was on holiday in China. At the time, there were 2 currencies in circulation, one used by ordinary people, known as “renmimbi”, and the other, reserved for foreign tourists, known as FECs (Foregn Exchange Certificates). As a foreigner, one could often only use FECs (in hotels, buying railway tickets, etc.), whereas in other, less touristy situations, we could spend “renmimbi”, which made things (even) cheaper for us. Because FECs were highly sought after by the Chinese (who could use them in posh shops, exchange them for US dollars, etc.), there was a lucrative and highly illegal market in changing FECs for renmimbi on the streets. Everywhere you went, young Chinese men would approach tourists, muttering “FECs”, “Change money”, etc. After the obligatory and furtive haggling over rates, a mutually beneficial deal would be struck. Everyone ended up happy, as the tourists got more than one renmimbi yuan for each FEC yuan, and the money changer got FECs that he could pass on at a profit.
On one occasion, though, when changing money on a street corner in this way, I was ripped off. The young man with whom I’d agreed the deal used a well-practised sleight of hand to shortchange me. As soon as I realised what had happened, the guy ran off, and I chased him. The chase went on for quite a while, past crowds of bystanders, astonished at the sight of a 6′ 6″ foreigner hurtling through crowded streets, shouting unintelligibly in hot pursuit of the terrified youngster. I suppose I thought I was standing up for some principle or other, whereas I now blush at the memory of bounding after this guy for the sake of what probably equated to about a fiver. Had I caught him, as I very nearly did, what then? The ridiculous mismatch of our sizes meant that I probably would have been able to get the better of him, and, as is always the way in China, a huge crowd would have gathered in seconds to find out what was going on. The police would undoubtedly have arrived on the scene, and the hapless youth would probably have been carted off to some cell, where summary justice would almost certainly have been dealt out, probably in the form of a bullet to the back of the head, theft from foreigners being (certainly then, if not still) a capital crime.
Needless to say, I’m glad that he gave me the slip, and I wonder where he is today. Maybe he’s still prowling around, ripping off tourists, or maybe he’s one of China’s new billionaires, his glittering career in international finance kick-started by a small con in a Beijing backstreet 21 years ago. Or maybe the next foreigner was a faster runner.
Once City had struggled to an Easter Saturday draw, we de-camped to North Wales for a week at the Brynteg Holiday Park, near Llanberis. And very nice it was too. The weather was good – in fact significantly better than in Tunisia, Marseilles or Mallorca, where some friends went, only to find leaden skies, wind and rain, returning rather disgruntled.
One highlight of the week was an unplanned ascent of Snowdon, a first for me. We had intended to have a short walk part of the way up the mountain, turning back in time to share a cup of morning coffee with the in-laws back at base camp. What we hadn’t intended to do was set off up the path to Crib Goch, which is a surprisingly steep climb to a sharp ridge. There was no going back once we’d committed to it, but it was a beautiful day and we ended up having a lovely walk/climb/scramble to the summit. The extent of our provisions was a can of Diet Coke, which we saved until we were at the top – Coke never tasted better.
The view from the top of Snowdon. The Crib Goch ridge is on the left.
I’ve decided to collect “firsts” as part of my 50th birthday year, and another first last week was beating my mother-in-law at Scrabble, which, in the league of social gaffes, ranks alongside beating one’s boss at golf. But then I’ve done that as well, and I’m still in work. I’m not very good at Scrabble, and get easily bored by it, but I had a good run of high-scoring letters to give me the edge. I was also given access to a list of allowed 2-letter words, most of which are not real words at all, but have somehow found their way into a dictionary, thereby enabling you to put tiles down in all sorts of stupid places.
The Easter weekend also saw the Masters, held at Augusta National, Georgia, which must surely be the most beautiful golf course in the world. I used to enjoy the Masters long before I ever played golf, and still love it. The golf was disappointing, with none of the players finishing below par – Tiger Woods failed to win, which is also unusual these days, and the winner was the very bland Zack Johnson, who thanked Jesus Christ for helping him to win. Unusual name for a caddy, but nice of Zack to credit him.
