Six months ago Mr. Li knew what he wanted to do. Only a few days after the earthquake struck in Sichuan, he and a few other volunteer friends in Chengdu decided to help, somehow, and set up the Yak Rescue Team. 

“Why did you call it the ‘Yak’ rescue team?” I ask Mr. Li? “Because yaks are strong and dependable,” he explains.

Two Saturdays ago, I had returned with my customers to Chengdu after a week of driving through Sichuan’s beautiful countryside. The next day, Mr. Li invited us to join him and one of his Yak Rescue Team friends for a visit to Pengzhou county (彭州县) (Where is Pengzhou?). Pengzhou lies around 80km north of Chengdu, very close to the earthquake’s epicentre. Every since the earthquake struck on May 12 at 2:28pm, the Yak Team has been going to Pengzhou almost every weekend to provide assistance.

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As we drive north past the Pengzhou county capital and deeper into the earthquake zone, I expect to see houses such as that shown in the photo above as evidence of the enormity of the destruction, but I don’t see many. Instead,

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I have been in Danba (丹巴), a remote corner of Sichuan, researching an itinerary this week. (Where is Danba?) In the evening, my two Chinese friends and I wandered through the streets of Danba in search of a restaurant for dinner. One caught our eye because of its promising name: Shiweitian (食为天) which means, more or less, “[to regard] Food as Heaven”. Even though the restaurant didn’t look like much, we simply had to check it out to see whether its dishes  would live up to the restaurant’s ambitious name.  In the event, the cook did quite well.

Since we enjoyed the food, the cold beer and our own animated conversation, we didn’t take much notice of the large and boisterous crowd at the table next to ours until suddenly one man in the crowd got up , swivelled around and, with a full glass of beer, approached our table.

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I enjoy living in Hong Kong because taxes are as low as they should be. It’s also nice that the city strikes two balances extremely well. First, it is a beautiful blend between metropolis and country park. Second, it is the perfect mix between East and West: a strong legal foundation combines with people who have a can-do attitude that’s hard to beat. Together, this gives rise to a dynamism that is inspiring. What’s more, Hong Kong feels like home to me. That’s probably because everything is by now familiar, including, of course, Hong Kong’s people who lie at the heart of the city’s vibrant energy. It also feels familiar because for the most part I think I’ve come to understand what makes Hong Kongers tick. Granted, on occasion I don’t understand at all what makes them tick as when I see a TV remote control that is still in its frayed plastic cover after years of use. Presumably (some*) Hong Kongers believe that if a TV remote control is well preserved the entire TV set can be sold in the future at a higher price. In truth, I have no idea why the plastic wrappers stay on the TV remotes, but it doesn’t matter because it’s amusing and certainly no cause for concern.

(*Note: this is an article that thrives on generalisations; in most cases I should add “some” or “many” to qualify my statements, but I’ll dispense with this because I trust you will know that I don’t ever really mean “all”.)

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Today, I really feel like writing about greed, this basic human emotion that engenders financial meltdowns and manufacturers foul milk powder to the detriment of innocent citizens. Yes, it is tempting to pour out ones thoughts about these gut-wrenching events, but I won’t.

Instead, I want to relate a story that seems apropos.

A few months back a friend in Beijing sent me a link to a website together with the words: “This blog moved me a lot. He’s one of the best known and richest property developers in China. Who would have thought that someone like him is capable of sensitivity and deep emotions? His name is Pan Shiyi (潘石屹).”

Here is my translation of Mr. Pan’s blog entry.

“Next year, this pomegranate tree will bloom even more beautifully

When my mother was on her deathbed, she said to me:

‘Burry me anywhere in Beijing’s suburbs; don’t go to any length of trouble; really, I mean it.’
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If you think this photo, taken last year while travelling with Miss Daisy, is funny, perhaps you want to think again. To me, it carries a useful message about many (but by no means all) Chinese people’s attitude to risk and risk-taking.

Most of us rich folks may like the idea (though not always the reality) of risk, but by comparison with mainland China, especially rural mainland China, there are very few remaining real risks in our everyday lives.

Women hardly ever die in childbirth; miners generally make it back above ground; fishermen usually return to shore; and slaughtering a chicken usually doesn’t mean dicing with bird flu. What keeps us awake at night are financial risks — a bad bet in the stock market or a poor relationship with the boss — but these are rarely existential threats.

The invention in rich societies of diversions such as bungee-jumping and roller coasters is a neat piece of evidence that unwanted perils that once haunted people’s lives are mostly a thing of the past.

But not so for the people in many parts of China. They face existential risks by comparison to which a truck loaded with two trucks simply doesn’t register on the risk meter. And so, when we do business in China, it is worth bearing in mind that to many people there us rich guys seem like hyper-cautious wimp.

(The thoughts above occurred to me after reading an article in The Economist.)

“Life changes fast. Life changes in the instant. The ordinary instant. You sit down for dinner and life as you know it ends.” So wrote Joan Didion in The Year of Magical Thinking about the instant when her husband suffered a massive and fatal coronary and her life as she knew it ended.

Last night my eyes fell on Mrs Didion’s book while searching for another. It reminded me that I have meant to tell you the story of Honghong. (If you have followed my “Miss Daisy” adventure last year, you may have read about Honghong.)

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When I arrived with Miss Daisy in Lhasa last year, I found on my blog the following message:

“Peter, hello!
I really envy you for being able to drive the car you like through China, leave your footprints in foreign lands and create numerous unforgettable memories. Perhaps you can’t quite imagine how I feel, a young handicapped lady
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It’s been an intense two weeks for me in China: I travelled a good 4,000km by car through the country; I read a book on China that’s given me a lot to think about; and the shindig in Beijing got kicked off.

I drove the 4,000km in order to explore a new route for On the Road in China. My journey of exploration took me from Sichuan’s capital, Chengdu, into the foothills of the Tibetan highlands and then down to China’s border with Lao and Burma where the country feels nothing if not South-East Asian. (See here for an overview of the itinerary.) One reason why I enjoy this region of China is that it is home to the majority of China’s colorful minorities. On this trip, I encountered members of the Yi, Bai, Dai, Naxi, Tibetan, Hani, Lahu, Jinuo and quite a few other minorities. These are all part of China’s official list of 56 ethnic groups. (For the full list, please see Paul Noll’s site).
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On Wednesday night, I arrived back in Chengdu, one of my favorite cities in China. As I strolled through the streets looking for a late-night dinner, I saw the keepers of small stores as I’ve seen them everywhere in China. They are fascinating because they are a microcosm of Chinese life.

The shopkeeper’s place of work is usually a small street-side “hole-in-the-wall”.  If you look long enough, you can find almost anything you want in one of these stores.   Each such store is crammed full with items for sale; there is normally hardly any space to move.    There is some order in the disorder; the key to finding things is in the store keeper’s head.   
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There is an old Chinese saying: A mother never looks ugly to her son (儿不嫌母丑). So it used to be. No matter what your parents look like or what are their circumstance, they are your parents, and so you’ll never feel ashamed of being seen with them. Hold this thought.

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A few weeks ago, my friend Qing Yulan from Chengdu sent me this link to a blog entry. The story in it gave me a lot to think, Yulan said. I think you will want to read it.   Since I read Chinese only slowly, I kept putting it off until this morning when I tackled it with the help of my Chinese teacher, Vivienne Bai.

Here’s the gist of the story:

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Nature’s might, life’s fragility…Let us ignore them at our peril…

I was in Chengdu when the earthquake struck on May 12th this year and a few days later wrote an essay about the experience.  Here it is.

The birds sing in the trees overhead.

Under these trees, I am sitting, squatting in fact, on a curb stone in the parking lot of my hotel. My heart is still pounding, more from running than from fear. I look up and down myself and notice that I forgot to put on my shoes; my socks are smudged and dusty. Then I start looking around at the crowd of anxious people that has assembled in front of the hotel, some still close to the building, others at the far end of the parking lot. Most of them are pre-occupied with their mobile phones, but their expressions reveal that, for once, these technological wonders are of little help. I wish I had my mobile phone on me to try for myself to make a call even though I know it would be in vain since the network is jammed.

While I sit and wait, one of the hotel staff, a charming lady with cute freckles and a tan, notices that I am shoe-less and so brings me slippers. Never before have I been so touched by someone giving me slippers. Everything in life depends on circumstance.

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