Time for Another Comeuppance

I’m pretty grateful to Karl Marx for putting things into perspective for me so many years ago. Religion, he declared, was the opiate of the masses. Never having thought of myself as one of the masses, I long ago eschewed religion and concentrated instead on self preservation and accepting responsibility for my own actions rather than blaming it all on an unknown Being, who had a few other billions of souls to look after.

Just as well, as it turns out; for otherwise I would be shuddering by now at the prospect of spending the rest of eternity being consumed by the hellfires of damnation. You see, if the truth be known, I haven’t been a very good boy these last few years.

Not content with being arrested in Jeddah, I was also arrested, charged, finger-printed and thrown in jail in Riyadh, fined ginormous sums in Dubai and now, living the simple life in Beijing, I have run foul of the authorities once again.

I first became aware of my heinous crime a few days ago. Suddenly my internet connection stopped working. OMG, thought I. Perhaps the web police had discovered that I had been downloading Johnny English Reborn via the Pirate Bay. The news has been full of stories that China is tightening its copyright piracy measures, so let’s face it… where better to start than stopping its foreign experts from taking a sneak preview of Mr Bean acting incognito, even if your favourite blogger had been trying to circumvent the restrictions by using some proxy software to make himself ‘anonymous’ online?

(An aside here: it is said that the Chinese military are behind much of the DVD bootlegging, so it’s unlikely that this little sideline will stop any time soon! But shhhh – don’t tell anyone I said that!)

Eventually, after two days of internet silence, I decided to face the music and took a 406 bus to China Unicom to turn myself in.

The truth, it turned out, was much worse than I dared to fear. My account, it appears, was unpaid. Despite sending an sms pointing out that I owed China Unicom the grand total of 6.7 jiao, it appeared I had wilfully ignored them and they had no option but to stop my connection.

Now, for those unaccustomed to high finance, I should maybe explain that the Chinese currency is made up of yuan, jiao and fen. 100 fen = 10 jiao = I yuan. 10 yuan = about £1. So I had wilfully run up the equivalent of around 7 UK pence or 11 US cents and it was obvious to everyone that I was trying to avoid my responsibilities by doing a runner.

Shamefacedly I was led to a queue of other miscreants and was asked to wait in line before eventually being relieved of a one yuan note without even being offered the option of getting any change. But the good news was that my internet connection would be restored, though not for a couple of hours.

I took the 406 bus back home again where my internet remained stubbornly unresponsive. I rebooted Windoze – usually guaranteed to breathe fresh life into the old machine. Nothing. I reloaded the software. Nothing. I even thought about kicking it into life, but my soft feminine side prevented me doing anything untoward to my little Lenovo.

Then I realised I hadn’t waited for the promised two hours… so I held back my natural impatience and planned on all the things I would do once I had my window on the world restored.

Night time came and went and still I was trapped in my own little space bubble. I thought of going to the office and asking someone there to ring China Unicom for me. But in the end I braved the ten minute journey on the 406 yet again and went in to the hallowed portals, there to seek someone who could understand what I wanted.

No one at the information desk spoke a word of the Queen’s vernacular.

But luckily someone in the queue behind me had mastered the equivalent of La plume de ma tante in Chinglish and was able to offer up a running translation for me. I was asked to wait. (I presume I was asked to wait, though in theory I suppose it could have been anything for all I knew.) Eventually a petite girl from the inner office emerged and engaged in rapid conversation with my newly acquired translator.

She looked into her database, tut-tutted a few times (tsk tsk sounds the same in any language) and told my interlocutor that there was absolutely no reason whatsoever why my internet connection shouldn’t work… but I noticed all the same that she clicked on a couple of tick-boxes on my record card which had remained obstinately blank up until that moment. Working on the principle that discretion is the better part of valour, I thanked them both profusely for their time and headed back once again for the 406 and home.

And guess what! As I hit the connect button my internet roared into life once more and no longer did I feel an outcast from the world.

I guess yet again your favourite blogger got his comeuppance and in the future will hopefully lead a better, more upright existence for the benefit of mankind. For if a moral is needed for this sad story it is that he who holds the purse strings has the upper hand. Or to put it another way… never brush with authority cos “they” will win every time.

Patience has its rewards

At last! After being here in Beijing for two whole months, I am finally the proud owner of my very own internet connection at home in my apartment.

Until this week I have had to take in my laptop to the office and piggy-back on the office wifi in order to read my eMails and do all the hundreds of unspeakable things I like to get up to on the web. It’s no use trying to use my official work computer as the techie boffins have disabled just about anything that could be deemed useful in any way whatsoever. (Why do techies tend to do this? Are they so insecure in their jobs that they need to exercise some kind of ultimate control over the hapless end user so they have to be called for even the most menial of tasks?)

The reason it took so long is that it is well nigh impossible to find anyone in a Chinese telecom company who speaks a word of English. So the obvious solution is to ‘borrow’ a friendly Chinese speaking friend to act as interlocutor. I’m lucky in that in the office is the perfect Chinese ‘geek’ – Andrew - who not only can interpret for me but also knows what he is talking about when it comes to things technical.

The problem, though, is that his job has taken him to the wilds of both Shanghai and Shenzhen in the past few weeks, and when he came back it was the wrong time to apply.

Wrong time? Oh yes; he is absolutely right. When you sign up to a service such as a simple internet connection here, you pay by the month; so it makes no sense to sign up near the end of the month and pay for a number of days that by definition you have not been able to use.

Eventually Andrew and I plump for an auspicious day, this being the 3rd of the month when we are both able to visit the China Unicom shop a short bus ride away from where we both work. We walk in, Andrew gets a queuing ticket, he finds out we are likely to be waiting around half an hour and we walk out so that he can light up his ‘fix’.

We go back in 20 minutes later to collect a clutch of forms all – naturally – written in Chinese. Andrew fills out the necessaries as I embarrass myself by showing him my passport photo and admitting my true age (39…. again!) which he double checks against my passport to make sure I am not pulling a fast one (who me????).

Our number is called. We wander over to the desk and a rapid quick fire of conversation ensues while I am totally ignored by the girl who is looking after us.

Andrew translates as the girl pauses for breath. I have struck lucky, it appears. Special offer: for a limited time only I can pay for a year and get two months subscription off. Far too good to be true. If I had come last week I would have had to pay an extra 330RMB – or just over £30; and that doesn’t include having to pay for the missed weeks at the beginning of the month. Lucky Brian!

But wait! The gods must really be smiling on me today. I am to be given a new landline too. No matter that I already have a company landline in my apartment. Now I will have two landlines to choose from and can presumably phone someone in stereo.

But it gets EVEN better. Another special deal especially for special little me means I will be given a special mobile SIM card. But I already have a Chinese SIM. No matter. This special one gives me 300 minutes of talk time every month for free to anyone in China. Not that I know anyone in China that I want to talk to for 300 minutes every month. But I tell myself not to be so precious and just to be grateful! Puh. Some people are never satisfied!

What? Can the gods really be making this my red letter day? For to top it all, I will ALSO be texted a special voucher worth 100 RMB off anything in a little mail order catalogue I am given.

Yeah, OK; the catalogue is all in Chinese; and the SMS will be in Chinese; and I would have to order online – in Chinese - and that’s not to mention the fact that my current mobile doesn’t display Chinese characters; but let’s not quibble. For I have been singled out by the powers above to be the lucky recipient of China Unicom’s largesse. Why can’t I just be grateful FGS?

Now, I should maybe point out at this juncture that applying for a Chinese internet connection should surely come with a health warning. For although I am blessed by China Unicom’s generosity, it does come at a price. And it’s called RSI. Sign here, I am asked; and here; and here; oh and don’t forget to sign here; and you’ll need to sign this document; and here; and also this one; and don’t forget to print your name next to this signature; and here; and here; and……. well, you get the drift.

Ten sheets of paper later and with my signature starting to look more and more like Chinese (traditional, not simplified) I am handed a large wad of paper; and an installation CD; and a SIM card; and a mail order catalogue (in Chinese); and a 2D instruction booklet (in Chinese). I can pick up an envelope at the reception desk, the girl informs Andrew as we stagger away from her, so as not to lose anything. But the envelope handed over to us is too small for the remains of the tree we have just used up, so I stuff it all into my ‘man bag’ and we go out into the sunshine once more.

Do you wanna open a bank account now, Andrew asks me? But it’s Saturday afternoon. No worries; the banks are open seven days a week in China. We head off to a branch of the China Merchants Bank that Andrew thinks well of.

We walk in and are met by a smiling receptionist who gives Andrew a couple of forms to fill out. Not for the first time am I reminded of an old programme for the disabled on BBC’s Radio 4 which was called “Does He Take Sugar” – a reference to the fact that disabled people tend to be totally ignored while their minders are asked all the relevant questions.

The bank is modern and pristine, and, Andrew adds (and I wonder if this is why he likes this bank so much) you get free orange juice and coffee. We have almost got to the stage of plonking our sit-upons in the comfortable chairs when our number is called.

This time there are only two forms to fill in; and I am asked to think of a six-figure security number for my bank card. The choice is easy. My staff number from BBC days of old has stayed in my memory for decades, so this, I decide, will be the number. Except…. Does it start 14 or 41? Oh, OK; got it now. I am asked to key the number in twice and a bank card is produced out of thin air. It doesn’t have my name on it. Instead it belongs to “Beijing 0 CN”. But I guess I can live with that.

I hand over a 50RMB note as my initial deposit, take a red sweetie out of a bowl lying enticingly in front of me, we thank the charming bank teller and head off to the coffee station.

Except there is no coffee today, although there are two jugs – one with an orangey coloured liquid and the other which looks a dark plum colour. Andrew tries the latter, just manages to stop himself spitting it out onto the floor and quickly pours himself some of the orange coloured liquid which passes for a feeble imitation of cat’s pee. He searches for somewhere to deposit the half filled cup while I read some of the user friendly notices pinned up by the management.

I am now weighed down with more paper as we head back, knowing that internet installation day is now scheduled for four days hence.

Can I contain my excitement? I guess I can. The installation man is due to arrive at 11 and Andrew is standing by at the other end of a telephone in case I have problems. But the only problem is that Mr Installer turns up at 1030 just after I have made myself a cup of tea which turns quietly tepid as my attention is taken up with other things.

He seems surprised to see I already have a landline. He tries dialling out on it but has no luck. How do you say in Chinese “try putting a zero at the front of your number my good fellow”? My mind turns temporarily blank as I struggle to find the right words.

He mimes to me that he is going downstairs to investigate and I mime to him that that is perfectly OK with me. He disappears; I slurp up some tepid tea; he reappears; I abandon the tea and help him pull back the bed behind which is the wall socket he needs to get to. He attaches his little grey box of tricks, punches in a few numbers and then produces an Ethernet wire and a router from a box. I point to the power socket on the floor; I point to the Ethernet input on the computer and we both grunt to show we understand one another. Perhaps his grunt is a little more practised than mine, but after all this is his profession and I am convinced he has done an awful lot of grunting with foreigners before. In terms of gruntability I must concede to this master grunter.

Before I know it my screen comes alive with google.co.uk. But to make really sure it is working, he punches in weibo.com, as you obviously can’t trust these foreign web sites. Sure enough, weibo comes in loud and clear. I am shown the little icon that has magically appeared on my screen. He double clicks it. Unsurprisingly a Wireless Network Connection Status box appears. He smiles and closes the box. He then insists I double click on the same icon. Unsurprisingly a Wireless Network Connection Status box appears. I smile and close the box. We both smile. He indicates another wire hanging out of the wall socket and in true Marcel Marceau fashion I am given to understand that this is where I plug in my telephone. The fact that I don’t have another handset isn’t of course his worry, so I nod eagerly to show I have got the gist of what he says.

I sign another three times on bits of paper, and am handed a blue sheet from a sheaf of pages onto which my signature has magically forced its way.

His job now done, my smiling technical engineer heads for the door. Xièxiè, I mutter feebly; Zàijiàn!

Byeebyee, says my new friend as he heads off towards the lift.

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