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from ATM Asian Mayhem
The Sleeping Wood sits in the shadow of the Holiday Inn, and directly across a small street dotted with several discos, sits a small family run convenience store. Out front low folding tables and brightly colored kiddy stools filled the sidewalk. Parked all along this street were a legion of taxis, and sitting at three of the tables were the drivers, some off duty, some just coming on, waiting for customers from the hotel. It was still mid afternoon and I wanted to be outside, so I went into the store, bought three large local beers and a big bag of unshelled peanuts and joined the drivers out front. This was a regular tradition of mine and the men were always quite happy to see me. One evening, after leaving a rather dull and empty nightclub along the same road, I stopped by this place and sat down for a beer. I was at once welcomed to a table of drivers, eager to practice their English. I found it was also beneficial for me to practice my Chinese, so it worked out fine. When the light had faded I noticed a number of hookers showed up, also waiting for customers from the hotel, and they flirted me up for cigarettes and soda–no future client wants to smell alcohol on the breath of their future mistress do they? So here I was yet again, serving beer, peanuts, and English to those willing to talk.
As the afternoon wore on, my working class friends and I continued to sip beer and nibble our snacks and chat in two languages, three if you counted Cantonese. As the evening approached through a dimming haze, as if on cue a half dozen street girls showed up, sitting on some nearby steps, smoking, sipping soda that I bought, and looking bored. It was still too early to find work for either group–everyone was at dinner or winding down happy hour somewhere.
Young men in suits hustled around the room, whispering into mini headsets to unseen employees on the status of the meals of the Hong Kong elite who dined there. It was impressive to say the least. The manager, a lovely middle aged woman named Kim, sat with us for a round of tea and shark fin soup. Poon showed me the price on the menu for the soup--800 HK dollars!
I returned to the Hill, which was in full swing by now and squeezed in beside another good friend, Mr. Y.Y. Poon. He always sat at the same place, near the cash register, where he held court with the afternoon cashier. Poon is a character of sorts. He was born in the mainland, but lives in Hong Kong. He travels extensively to America on business and is very much in love with the American west and the country music of Willy Nelson, Merle Haggard, and other oldies. He prides himself on wearing “real” Levis bought in the USA, not copies from home. When in town, he would show up at Hill about 4:30 or 5:00 pm., sharing Chinese style snacks with the young girls: dried sour plums, dried cuttle fish, dried, shredded pork jerky. He would ask about my work and so on, but when 5:55 pm rolled around, he would pay his bill and go up the street fifty meters to another wonderful hang out, Elephant and Castle. There he watches the local news for an hour with the very pleasant and helpful owner, Clement. After I told Poon of my robbery, he also asked, “Do you need some money? How much?” He was always very generous. One time I traveled with him back to Hong Kong, as I had to renew my visa. He was curious as to where I did it, so he came with me. The prices had changed though, and for what would have been the usual price for a six month multiple entry visa, now only bought me a single entry for three months. Poon talked Cantonese with the young woman and inquired as to the price of the six month. He then pulled out his wallet and paid for my visa, waving me off, saying “You pay me when you have it.” That was the end of it, then he took me to dinner at a very expensive Cantonese restaurant, where he managed their books. Young men in suits hustled around the room, whispering into mini headsets to unseen employees on the status of the meals of the Hong Kong elite who dined there. It was impressive to say the least. The manager, a lovely middle aged woman named Kim, sat with us for a round of tea and shark fin soup. Poon showed me the price on the menu for the soup--800 HK dollars! He smiled and simply said "don't worry, it's on the house". We both then went shopping for an Austrian friend at a western foods market, who had requested certain delicacies only available in Hong Kong. Poon paid for everything and told me to tell our friend Mario, the recipient of most of the items, it was a gift from Poon. All in all, it was the best day I had ever spent in Hong Kong.
I accepted 300 RMB from Poon, who wouldn’t hear it otherwise and continued the evening at the Elephant and Castle. In the back of their beer garden was a pool table, the only one around that any of us knew of, and playing there were three good friends, Canadian Dennis, Londoner James and Nigerian Kevin. They always huddled in the back, smoking hash and playing a reasonable game of eight ball. Being in the mood I was, I didn’t hesitate to partake of the hash being passed around. Also being in the mood, I relayed my story, buying a round of drinks, either on Desmond’s money or Poon’s, I wasn’t sure. I returned inside after our drink and talked with Poon and Clement. Many times Clement’s family would arrive and he would invite one or two patrons to join them. Poon and I both had the fortune to eat with them this night and Clement’s nieces were there, two young angels who were encouraged to speak English with Poon and I. On a few occasions they gave us a private concert in a secluded area of the bar, both girls playing Chinese flutes that always brought tears to my eyes. They were simply angelic.
Word of my robbery had gotten around and a girl named Daisy, the Chinese girlfriend of Peter, someone I hope to forget, encouraged me to make a police report. She said she would be more than happy to help out, so off we went in a taxi to the police station. The whole experience was a huge waste of time. When we arrived we were completely ignored for half an hour. Daisy, normally a polite and dignified Chinese girl, approached the desk, slammed her hand onto the top and demanded we be taken care of. Two policemen drove us to where the massage parlor was located. Prior to arriving at the police station, Daisy had stopped our taxi at the door of the massage parlor, getting the correct name and address. Daisy told them to stop and pointed out the place, but they acted as if they didn’t hear and kept driving. I tapped the driver’s shoulder and told him in Chinese, “Stop! There! There it is!”. Obligingly, they stopped in the middle of the road, the driver letting out a resigned sigh. The two officers conferred with each other in low quiet voices so neither Daisy nor I could hear. They made facial expressions and a few subtle hand and head gestures that also made us leery of them. The cop riding shotgun took out his phone and called someone. He talked for a while, made eye contact with the other cop several times and then rang off. Then to Daisy and my surprise, they made a U-turn in the middle of the road and drove back toward the police station, never bothering to enter the establishment or question anyone who worked there. What was going on?
On the trip back Daisy confided in me that she didn’t trust either one of them now and suggested that perhaps the police were involved in this in some way. “Maybe that’s why nobody wanted to help us when I mentioned the name of the place at the station." That really made sense to me, because that morning the manager of the parlor refused to call the police, even though I repeatedly asked him to. He insisted there was nothing the police could do for me. And it was far from the first time I had been told stories by Chinese and other expats about corruption in Guangzhou; the city seemed to thrive on it. When we returned, the policeman who drove us went outside and made a number of phone calls, far out of any one’s earshot. Anytime someone walked near, he would quickly fold up his phone, then resume the call when they walked away. Daisy and I both watched this go on with deep suspicion.
Again we were left alone for a unreasonable length of time and again Daisy expressed to a cop the lack of respect for my terrible situation. One older cop, who looked as if he had just spent the night in his uniform and reeked of bai ju (Chinese liquor), looked at us with evil, blood shot eyes. He huffed around the station, waving his arms around and babbling something to nobody in particular. Daisy whispered to me, "He's drunk". Within a few moments another officer in a bedraggled uniform, blood shot eyes and messy hair, took my statement. He asked for my phone number and for the second time that day, someone chatted with the thief*. As the cop was talking, another policeman walked into the room, speaking loudly to the other officer. The cop on the phone quickly covered the phone's mouthpiece and motioned to the other policeman to be quiet, then he continued the conversation. Afterwards he advised me to make arrangements with the crook to meet in a public place where the police would be in waiting to catch him. I saw failure written all over this somewhat flimsy plan and I left with Daisy, completely disappointed. cont. | prev. | main
*The one thing to mention about this second phone call was, the
officer said it was a woman, and she had nothing to do with the theft.
In the other phone calls from the massage parlor, it had been a man. I
really began to think the woman was indeed the massage girl from that
night, a girl I had never seen before, and who had seemingly
disappeared from work. The whole ordeal seemed to be a setup, well
planned in advance.
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