By Jack LeBlanc 

Jan’s standing orders were not to talk price under any circumstances, but to make sure that the visit in Europe would be light on formal meetings and heavy on visits to exotic locales. It was best that he not join the group, but give Smile one week’s travel money and let them enjoy the experience in their own way.

It was better this way because although Jan insisted on meeting the group, he quickly realized that they were out of his league. He arranged a memorable dinner in an expensive Japanese restaurant, probably thinking that the whole delegation would enjoy a hearty home-style meal away from home. Afterwards I got an ear-full about one of the delegates trying to sit on the tatami in a nicely decorated private room, losing his balance and accidentally smashing through the rice paper wall, disturbing a Japanese party in the adjacent room. Not to mention the countless jugs of expensive sake that were consumed in a noisy Sichuan drinking contest where two participants challenged each other in a word and hand-sign game. The losing party had to ganbei a glass, while the next participant readied for another bet. I could imagine Jan’s unease and helplessness as the noisy celebrations un- folded in ever-louder screams and shouts. Thankfully Smile, as usual, acted as the perfect Chongqing ambassador, smoothing any bumps along the road.

On their return to Beijing, their Sichuan batteries were fully recharged at a well-known Sichuan filling station: the Sichuanese restaurant that was occasionally visited by Deng Xiaoping.

Hearing Smile’s US story was a real relief. None of the HK company’s employees had met them in the States and the Americans seemed to have treated them as any other customer. Apparently the group was shown an endless string of glass factories and glass towers, and fed on bleeding steak, hamburgers and mashed potatoes. Present score: 2–1
in favor of the home team!

Reporting back on the phone with Jackson I could hear he was more than satisfied with the present state of affairs. He would further stage-manage the situation on the return of the delegation to Chongqing. Meanwhile, in November, as thunder rumbled through a sunshiny day, the Renminbi was devalued again. The last revaluation I remembered was December ’89 when the USD/RMB rate plummeted overnight by over twenty percent. At that time the consequences of such change didn’t filter through to daily life, as China tended to insulate you from the outside world. Now, however the outcome struck home at the speed of light: thanks to the new exchange rate of 5.2 RMB to the dollar, the prices of our glass in the local currency were bloated by ten percent. This was definitely a bad omen, as I had noticed during discussions all prices were mentally converted to Renminbi. The gradual devaluations had been enacted to encourage more exports and earn the country foreign exchange. But for this ugly little capitalist it was a new situation to manage, and I feared that our prices would have to be devalued correspondingly.

As Beijing got colder and the daytime temperatures dipped below zero, I was asked to fly to Chongqing for final discussions with the import-export company. Apparently a large proportion of the various contracts had already been awarded to several suppliers, and one of the undecided parts was the purchase of the glass. Although the bidding documents could not be changed, Old J didn’t disappoint. Memories of the delegation’s cold reception in the US were still reverberating in the corridors of the Chongqing karaoke bars. As quickly as boiling water softens instant noodles he mollified the import-export company and Mr. Yu’s team from the Building Design and Research Institute. Although officially the bidding documents would have to be followed, the European glass could be accepted under the condition that the price would be more attractive than that of any other party. A road towards ‘price devaluation’ was slowly opening. Luckily for me the Tsinghua students were performing a military training session and I was able to free myself for a whole week. Heading for Chongqing was akin to returning to my Chinese roots. On approach to the airport, through the thick clouds, the rice fields suddenly popped up like contour lines on a topographic map. I was back home.

Though it wasn’t raining, the humidity made itself known by drawing streaks of moisture on the airplane’s windows. On the ground, at fourteen degrees Celsius, the cold damp air tackled my body head on. If not properly dressed for nature’s persistent bite, one would get an eerie sensation as if one’s bones were slowly cooling down inside the body. A far cry from the dry cold I was accustomed to in Beijing.

Jackson and Smile were at the airport, waiting for me in a rusty Russian Volga car on loan from Chongqing University. As the night settled in, we were on our way to my old alma mater. The road from the airport to the city wasn’t yet the present-day three-lane highway, but a twisting road along a mountainous terrain of rice fields, rocks and the odd village. In the darkness, the car drove slowly through a reddish-brown landscape carved up by the headlights, until one of the front tires suddenly gave out. Here we were in the middle of nowhere on a pitch-black cold damp night. Unprepared for the event, we had to feel our way into the back of the car for the spare tire and carjack. The spare tire seemed worn out but OK; the jack however called in absent. A spare, no jack, pitch dark, cold, we were quickly running out of options and the occasional car passing through refused to stop for a bunch of castaways. Desperate, Jackson walked up the road to see if he could discern anything on the other side of the hill. Not soon afterwards he returned back shouting that he had seen a dim light in the distance. The only problem that remained was deciding who would venture into the complete darkness through the fields to that place, avoid the hungry dogs that probably protected the property, knock on the door and face the wrath of the farmer who might think a thief was sneaking in to take away his belongings. Definitely not a mission for the faint-hearted. In the end we settled on the driver – as an ex-military man he would be able to deal with the situation.

Indeed, roughly two hours later, we heard the heavy ‘tacketack tacketack tacketack’ of a small farm vehicle coming our way. Sitting behind the farmer, our driver was waving triumphantly. We had been lucky, the tractor-owning farmer turned out to be a trader who collected rice from the surrounding villages. After roughly an hour, a hundred RMB, and thousands of thank yous, we were back on the road… I went to sleep at 3AM in the morning – the following day would be the big one.

Jack LeBlanc, author of Business Republic of China, Tales from the front line of China’s new revolution.

This is the eighth part of “The great glass curtain walls of China”, next week we will publish the ninth part. Here you can find Part 1, Part 2, Part 3, Part 4, Part 5, Part 6, Part 7.