‘I met you in my dream last night. Can you guess where we met?’ Having recognised my voice, my niece was shouting excitedly on the phone.
‘The zoo?’ I asked. It was one of her favourite haunts, and thanks to her frequent visits she was chosen as the best zebra painter in her class.
‘No. It was Disneyland!’ she said, in high spirits.
‘Was it good?’
‘Yes. We had great fun there,’ she laughed.
To mark her third birthday two years ago, her parents took her to the Disneyland which is across the border in Hong Kong. I was told that she was so exhilarated by that experience that on returning home, she complained that until she was back in the Mickey Mouse Hotel, which is designed to accommodate the family visitors from mainland China, she would not be able to go to sleep.
Unlike any previous generations in my family, my niece can dream about an overseas trip and have all her material needs satisfied. The other day she even suggested that it would be ideal if the family could spend at least one day in a nice place away from home: by nice she meant nothing less than a four-star hotel.
Her generation is spoilt by choice. Or is it?
For the third year now since she was admitted to pre-school, she was spending her entire summer holidays at school rather than at home. Her schedule was packed: Chinese, English, singing, dancing, arts and crafts, chess, painting and more recently, piano. Is she happy? Yes, she is. Nearly everybody in her school stays there throughout the two long holidays of every year. It is their way of life – to be packed off from home all year round so that their parents can get on with their careers. No working parents can afford to switch to part-time work in order to bring up their only child. And what is more, since her parents are so busy during the week and cannot get home till seven or eight o’clock at night, the only leisure time my niece has with her parents is at weekends. But even then her father is on call, and in order to be with him all day she learnt early on to keep her fingers crossed.
Spending nearly all of her time at school, and without the freedom to go downstairs alone for fear of being kidnapped, my niece seems to me to be like a prisoner.
28 November 2011
24 November 2011
I feel like a fraud
'I feel like a fraud. I’ve been teaching for six years now but since the teachers’ qualification examination is scheduled for the summer holidays, I’ve always dodged it. I’ve preferred to take an overseas tour with my family,’ my friend said when I asked her about her holiday plans. ‘So this summer, I’m going to get it over with. It will be hilarious, though, to have one teacher invigilating over a large group of his colleagues who are trying to get through by cheating. The system is just ridiculous.’
After graduating with a master’s degree in a top theatre academy in Beijing, my friend has been teaching stage directing in a school of arts. The school is run by a former actor who was a popular leading man in his younger days. Her keen frustration, though, does not derive only from a ‘ridiculous system’ that requires all teachers to acquire a qualification by passing an exam – the cause of the widespread cheating – but from another corrupt practice she is bound by.
This involves submitting articles regularly, regardless of their scholarly value, to an academic journal in order to fill up the space that her school has bought in it. This way, the school has a more visible ‘research’ profile, and those who play the game will eventually fill up their quota of ‘research publications’ that are required when they come to apply for a more senior post. In my friend’s case, the post is that of Associate Professor.
There is surely nothing wrong with that if in both processes proper standards are being upheld: but abuses abound and they are being widely, if covertly, ridiculed.
In the old days professional seniority was often linked to length of service, and thus the older one was, the higher one’s status. However, in modern China many who are young or who have only just acquired their doctorates are immediately awarded senior titles. One is tempted to believe that if their publications were judged with any academic rigour, very few of them would rise so meteorically.
After graduating with a master’s degree in a top theatre academy in Beijing, my friend has been teaching stage directing in a school of arts. The school is run by a former actor who was a popular leading man in his younger days. Her keen frustration, though, does not derive only from a ‘ridiculous system’ that requires all teachers to acquire a qualification by passing an exam – the cause of the widespread cheating – but from another corrupt practice she is bound by.
This involves submitting articles regularly, regardless of their scholarly value, to an academic journal in order to fill up the space that her school has bought in it. This way, the school has a more visible ‘research’ profile, and those who play the game will eventually fill up their quota of ‘research publications’ that are required when they come to apply for a more senior post. In my friend’s case, the post is that of Associate Professor.
There is surely nothing wrong with that if in both processes proper standards are being upheld: but abuses abound and they are being widely, if covertly, ridiculed.
In the old days professional seniority was often linked to length of service, and thus the older one was, the higher one’s status. However, in modern China many who are young or who have only just acquired their doctorates are immediately awarded senior titles. One is tempted to believe that if their publications were judged with any academic rigour, very few of them would rise so meteorically.
21 November 2011
How kind should one be?
‘Xiao Du cried her heart out after I scolded her the other night at this very restaurant,’ my friend said, with frustration in her voice.
‘What had she done to deserve that?’ I asked. A pious Christian, my friend is anything but unforgiving. She has been mentoring Xiao Du ever since they met.
‘She was smart enough to get a master’s degree from Glasgow University without any difficulty. Yet she is naïve enough to hand over her mobile to a total stranger in the street!’
‘How come?’ It sounded pretty incredible.
‘She was on a trip to Nanhai city one morning and, as usual, arrived in good time. As she was walking to her destination, a car door was flung open right in front of her and a few stout men got out to ask for her help. They claimed to have come from a north eastern city and had lost their mobiles the night before. They wanted to borrow her mobile to contact their office.’
The ‘sensible’ way to protect oneself would have been to walk quickly away, pretending to be deaf or minding one’s own business.
‘What enraged me was that she not only gave them her mobile but got into their car to assist them! How foolish she was! She could have been stripped naked and held for ransom! Furthermore, in exchange for a promise to return her mobile later that evening, she walked away with a deposit from the strangers and attended to her business.’
‘Did she get her mobile back?’
‘Of course not! Both her family and I got calls from someone using it and asking how he could contact her. Imagine what was on our minds! We thought it was a scam and that her mobile had been snatched from her pocket. We feared she had been kidnapped.’
‘Didn’t she get in touch with her family?’
‘She did, but only to say “there’s been an incident” which she could not explain until she returned home. She didn’t have a clue that this would only add to our worries.’
‘Was she hurt or anything?’
‘No, but the point is, with so many scams and kidnaps happening every day, she should not have been so naïve as to trust total strangers. She’s had a lucky escape this time because those men turned out to be respectable, but that won’t always be the case. She shouldn’t forget that she’s back in China, you know.’
‘What had she done to deserve that?’ I asked. A pious Christian, my friend is anything but unforgiving. She has been mentoring Xiao Du ever since they met.
‘She was smart enough to get a master’s degree from Glasgow University without any difficulty. Yet she is naïve enough to hand over her mobile to a total stranger in the street!’
‘How come?’ It sounded pretty incredible.
‘She was on a trip to Nanhai city one morning and, as usual, arrived in good time. As she was walking to her destination, a car door was flung open right in front of her and a few stout men got out to ask for her help. They claimed to have come from a north eastern city and had lost their mobiles the night before. They wanted to borrow her mobile to contact their office.’
The ‘sensible’ way to protect oneself would have been to walk quickly away, pretending to be deaf or minding one’s own business.
‘What enraged me was that she not only gave them her mobile but got into their car to assist them! How foolish she was! She could have been stripped naked and held for ransom! Furthermore, in exchange for a promise to return her mobile later that evening, she walked away with a deposit from the strangers and attended to her business.’
‘Did she get her mobile back?’
‘Of course not! Both her family and I got calls from someone using it and asking how he could contact her. Imagine what was on our minds! We thought it was a scam and that her mobile had been snatched from her pocket. We feared she had been kidnapped.’
‘Didn’t she get in touch with her family?’
‘She did, but only to say “there’s been an incident” which she could not explain until she returned home. She didn’t have a clue that this would only add to our worries.’
‘Was she hurt or anything?’
‘No, but the point is, with so many scams and kidnaps happening every day, she should not have been so naïve as to trust total strangers. She’s had a lucky escape this time because those men turned out to be respectable, but that won’t always be the case. She shouldn’t forget that she’s back in China, you know.’
14 November 2011
Fire alarm
‘Have you heard of the fire at the office?’ my friend asked soon after we were seated in a bar.
‘No. When did it happen?’ I was concerned.
‘Just recently,’ my friend answered matter-of-factly. ‘The culprit was the cable connecting the neon lights on a billboard. Because it is on the twentieth floor, the black marks left behind on the board are still visible even from afar. But the fire has never been reported. Officially it simply never happened’.
‘Why so?’ I was curious.
‘Immediately after it was spotted, Ms B assembled a top team to come up with a press release in case any of our media rivals might want to report the incident. But the press release was never allowed to leave her hands. The billboard was installed on the building that houses the government media regulator. Once the regulator found out the truth, a total blackout on the incident was imposed. Among our journalist friends who know what happened, we are a laughing stock. They said we seemed to believe that if we covered our own eyes, nobody else would be able to see’.
Despite my many visits to the broadcasting building I had never noticed the scorch marks. Perhaps I was not looking. Yet over the years, one of the common subjects of conversation with my colleagues would be the integrity of working as a journalist in China. Interference from ‘above’ came in many forms: regular text messages to ban the coverage of certain events or incidents; the downgrading of a major story to make it sound less political or significant than it really was; and, in an incident still fresh in my memory, the termination of a scheduled programme half way through its transmission at the mere mention of some harmless religious rituals.
This constant interference has not deterred every talented journalist from doing his and her job within the many visible (and invisible) restrictions that are imposed on them. Indeed, some of my close friends are as brave and hardworking as ever, despite the frustrations that the conscientious must endure. Yet I also know of some talented broadcasters who have vowed that they will never work in the newsroom as long as the system continues.
‘No. When did it happen?’ I was concerned.
‘Just recently,’ my friend answered matter-of-factly. ‘The culprit was the cable connecting the neon lights on a billboard. Because it is on the twentieth floor, the black marks left behind on the board are still visible even from afar. But the fire has never been reported. Officially it simply never happened’.
‘Why so?’ I was curious.
‘Immediately after it was spotted, Ms B assembled a top team to come up with a press release in case any of our media rivals might want to report the incident. But the press release was never allowed to leave her hands. The billboard was installed on the building that houses the government media regulator. Once the regulator found out the truth, a total blackout on the incident was imposed. Among our journalist friends who know what happened, we are a laughing stock. They said we seemed to believe that if we covered our own eyes, nobody else would be able to see’.
Despite my many visits to the broadcasting building I had never noticed the scorch marks. Perhaps I was not looking. Yet over the years, one of the common subjects of conversation with my colleagues would be the integrity of working as a journalist in China. Interference from ‘above’ came in many forms: regular text messages to ban the coverage of certain events or incidents; the downgrading of a major story to make it sound less political or significant than it really was; and, in an incident still fresh in my memory, the termination of a scheduled programme half way through its transmission at the mere mention of some harmless religious rituals.
This constant interference has not deterred every talented journalist from doing his and her job within the many visible (and invisible) restrictions that are imposed on them. Indeed, some of my close friends are as brave and hardworking as ever, despite the frustrations that the conscientious must endure. Yet I also know of some talented broadcasters who have vowed that they will never work in the newsroom as long as the system continues.
11 November 2011
An English name for a Chinese person
‘Why do so many Chinese take English first names? Why don’t they stick with their Chinese ones? Some of the names they take sound so odd to me.’ A friend is always asking this question. He is referring to the fact that most of his Chinese acquaintances in Britain have an English name.
‘Well, it really depends on whom you ask,’ is an immediate answer.
In my case it was because our American professor could not handle seventy-two Chinese names in a single class, and so in his second or third session with us he asked if he could give each of us an English one. If any of the students had a view on this, I don’t remember them voicing it. This was the mid nineteen-eighties, and his idea seemed exotic to a bunch of twenty-somethings in the final year of their English degree.
The professor told us that since he was far away from home, he was going to give us the names of his extended family and friends so that he could feel more comfortable. He proceeded by reading out, in a funny way, our Chinese pinyin names, and then English ones that bore a vague resemblance to the way he thought ours sounded. And again, I don’t remember there being many objections to his choices, except from a few of us who did not want to share names with some popular fictional figure we had become acquainted with over the years.
Though never made explicit, it was understood that the names would be used predominantly for that particular module. Nor do I remember anyone who bothered to combine their Chinese surnames with the new English ones. In other words, someone was known simply as, say, John on his assignment for that particular module. Furthermore, some of us even went by two English names, one for each of the two American professors who were teaching us at the time. We had had other native English-speaking teachers and we were not sure why it was only the Americans who had a difficulty with our Chinese names.
Over the years, most of those who work in an international company in China have tended to adopt English names for the sake of easy identification by their international team, but some, especially those who have studied abroad, will soon change theirs once they become aware of other choices.
As for me, my English name became better known among my Chinese colleagues once I started to use it as a professional pseudonym. From the 1990s, the use of an English name was starting to gain popularity, but in adopting a professional pseudonym, I was also following a long tradition in China, which is to have as many names as one wants but to keep the Chinese name in one’s official papers.
Times have changed but one thing remains: as non-native English speakers, we are not sufficiently aware of the connotations of certain English names. So when a person comes to choose one either for herself or for a relative, a particular name is preferred to others for reasons that are often wholly whimsical.
‘Well, it really depends on whom you ask,’ is an immediate answer.
In my case it was because our American professor could not handle seventy-two Chinese names in a single class, and so in his second or third session with us he asked if he could give each of us an English one. If any of the students had a view on this, I don’t remember them voicing it. This was the mid nineteen-eighties, and his idea seemed exotic to a bunch of twenty-somethings in the final year of their English degree.
The professor told us that since he was far away from home, he was going to give us the names of his extended family and friends so that he could feel more comfortable. He proceeded by reading out, in a funny way, our Chinese pinyin names, and then English ones that bore a vague resemblance to the way he thought ours sounded. And again, I don’t remember there being many objections to his choices, except from a few of us who did not want to share names with some popular fictional figure we had become acquainted with over the years.
Though never made explicit, it was understood that the names would be used predominantly for that particular module. Nor do I remember anyone who bothered to combine their Chinese surnames with the new English ones. In other words, someone was known simply as, say, John on his assignment for that particular module. Furthermore, some of us even went by two English names, one for each of the two American professors who were teaching us at the time. We had had other native English-speaking teachers and we were not sure why it was only the Americans who had a difficulty with our Chinese names.
Over the years, most of those who work in an international company in China have tended to adopt English names for the sake of easy identification by their international team, but some, especially those who have studied abroad, will soon change theirs once they become aware of other choices.
As for me, my English name became better known among my Chinese colleagues once I started to use it as a professional pseudonym. From the 1990s, the use of an English name was starting to gain popularity, but in adopting a professional pseudonym, I was also following a long tradition in China, which is to have as many names as one wants but to keep the Chinese name in one’s official papers.
Times have changed but one thing remains: as non-native English speakers, we are not sufficiently aware of the connotations of certain English names. So when a person comes to choose one either for herself or for a relative, a particular name is preferred to others for reasons that are often wholly whimsical.
08 November 2011
Dazed and disoriented
‘Do you know that what I’m doing is downright illegal?’ my friend asked in exasperation when we met for tea. ‘I’m not a trained or qualified tour guide and neither is the broadcasting station registered or licensed to operate as a travel agency. If the tourism regulator takes this matter seriously we can easily get caught. And yet when I raised my concern, I was asked either to treat this as a business opportunity or get lost’.
Nicknamed Mr Radio for his love of the media, my friend had successfully worked on news, entertainment, sports and music programmes over the years, yet at what should have been the peak of his career, found himself the victim of an unsuccessful business deal that his employer had made. He was offered a ‘golden opportunity’ to host a tourism programme at weekends provided that he ran a travel agency during the week. Not wanting to change his profession entirely, he found himself for the past two years being forced to operate a dubious business on behalf of his broadcasting station. It was Catch 22: either he worked illegally on behalf of his employer or he lost his proper job.
‘You know how ironic it is. It’s a typical scenario in which one state organisation takes advantage of the slack way in which another state organisation enforces its regulations, ’ my friend continued, in evident discomfort.
‘I’m very confused as to who I am. One minute I’m this charming presenter, broadcasting live from the top floor of the radio station about how lovely certain beauty spots are. The next I’m on the ground floor and wearing the face of a businessman to take cash from my devoted audience in return for giving them a guided tour. My life is topsy-turvy and the whole business is a fraud. A sightseer once asked me if I was the same person as the one who had been on air just a couple of hours before. “You sounded just like him,” she observed, not being able to reconcile my different roles either’.
Indeed, those who are more used to the old ways are bound to be disoriented by the new realities of China.
Nicknamed Mr Radio for his love of the media, my friend had successfully worked on news, entertainment, sports and music programmes over the years, yet at what should have been the peak of his career, found himself the victim of an unsuccessful business deal that his employer had made. He was offered a ‘golden opportunity’ to host a tourism programme at weekends provided that he ran a travel agency during the week. Not wanting to change his profession entirely, he found himself for the past two years being forced to operate a dubious business on behalf of his broadcasting station. It was Catch 22: either he worked illegally on behalf of his employer or he lost his proper job.
‘You know how ironic it is. It’s a typical scenario in which one state organisation takes advantage of the slack way in which another state organisation enforces its regulations, ’ my friend continued, in evident discomfort.
‘I’m very confused as to who I am. One minute I’m this charming presenter, broadcasting live from the top floor of the radio station about how lovely certain beauty spots are. The next I’m on the ground floor and wearing the face of a businessman to take cash from my devoted audience in return for giving them a guided tour. My life is topsy-turvy and the whole business is a fraud. A sightseer once asked me if I was the same person as the one who had been on air just a couple of hours before. “You sounded just like him,” she observed, not being able to reconcile my different roles either’.
Indeed, those who are more used to the old ways are bound to be disoriented by the new realities of China.
04 November 2011
Dad was in the paper
‘Dad was in the paper,’ my sister said one day.
‘Really? What for?’ I was amazed. My dad has been retired for years, and dividing his time between following the news and practising calligraphy, neither of these things newsworthy in themselves.
‘Well, you know the number of newspapers we have at home. Besides those I bring home every night, he buys two other broadsheet papers. He makes clippings, photocopies them and distributes them to his fellow pensioners who gather downstairs every day to play poker or chess. According to the paper, he has been doing it for a long while, and all out of his own meagre pension.’
‘Had no one known about it at home?’
‘No, he’s kept it rather quiet and I only found out about it from the paper. Apparently someone in the neighbourhood provided the information.’
‘Ha,’ I was amused, ‘that is so typical of dad.’
A hardcore communist and loyal follower of Lei Feng, an army officer who devoted his whole life to the service of others, it was not enough for him to share his ‘fortune’ – access to an unusually large collection of newspapers – but to do it very discreetly. It is a rule he has adhered to all his life. In the late nineteen-eighties, he was the officer in charge of the allocation of company flats. For years his eldest daughter and her family had been struggling to find a place to live, and he was expected, and fully entitled, to keep for her the government-subsidised flat we were then living in. Yet without consulting his family, he surrendered it in order that ‘two newly-wedded couples in the company could solve their dire housing problem’. Putting communal needs first is his principle.
As children, we were made the dedicated volunteer cleaners of our apartment blocks, and on many of my home visits, I would find his lone figure sweeping the staircase.
‘The wall of the communal area is filthy and scratched. It looks bleak and uncared for. Why don’t you have it painted?’ I asked on one occasion. It was something he had helped to do not too many years ago.
‘It’s physically beyond me now,’ he replied. He is seventy-five.
‘But surely, you can have it painted professionally, and it shouldn’t cost much if every household contributed.’ Although not an affluent neighbourhood, the collective wealth is growing and I had seen private cars downstairs.
‘No, I can’t. If I did that, I would be regarded as a nuisance to those who did not want to contribute,’ my dad said, no doubt mindful of the waning influence of his idol Lei Feng.
‘Really? What for?’ I was amazed. My dad has been retired for years, and dividing his time between following the news and practising calligraphy, neither of these things newsworthy in themselves.
‘Well, you know the number of newspapers we have at home. Besides those I bring home every night, he buys two other broadsheet papers. He makes clippings, photocopies them and distributes them to his fellow pensioners who gather downstairs every day to play poker or chess. According to the paper, he has been doing it for a long while, and all out of his own meagre pension.’
‘Had no one known about it at home?’
‘No, he’s kept it rather quiet and I only found out about it from the paper. Apparently someone in the neighbourhood provided the information.’
‘Ha,’ I was amused, ‘that is so typical of dad.’
A hardcore communist and loyal follower of Lei Feng, an army officer who devoted his whole life to the service of others, it was not enough for him to share his ‘fortune’ – access to an unusually large collection of newspapers – but to do it very discreetly. It is a rule he has adhered to all his life. In the late nineteen-eighties, he was the officer in charge of the allocation of company flats. For years his eldest daughter and her family had been struggling to find a place to live, and he was expected, and fully entitled, to keep for her the government-subsidised flat we were then living in. Yet without consulting his family, he surrendered it in order that ‘two newly-wedded couples in the company could solve their dire housing problem’. Putting communal needs first is his principle.
As children, we were made the dedicated volunteer cleaners of our apartment blocks, and on many of my home visits, I would find his lone figure sweeping the staircase.
‘The wall of the communal area is filthy and scratched. It looks bleak and uncared for. Why don’t you have it painted?’ I asked on one occasion. It was something he had helped to do not too many years ago.
‘It’s physically beyond me now,’ he replied. He is seventy-five.
‘But surely, you can have it painted professionally, and it shouldn’t cost much if every household contributed.’ Although not an affluent neighbourhood, the collective wealth is growing and I had seen private cars downstairs.
‘No, I can’t. If I did that, I would be regarded as a nuisance to those who did not want to contribute,’ my dad said, no doubt mindful of the waning influence of his idol Lei Feng.
02 November 2011
Cash cards
On a recent visit to my sister in China, she surprised me by producing an envelope full of cash cards.
The concept of the cash card was not new to me. It was introduced during the 1990s when companies would hand them out to their staff, or those in positions of power, in the form of 'coupons'. Since they were disguised as consumables in the companies’ accounts and never registered officially, the amounts accumulated by their receivers would never show up in their personal income. The practice was ubiquitous: the loss of government tax revenue was such that there was a time when it was banned. To no one’s real surprise, however, it made a quick comeback. The reasons? The cash card – with a validity of only six to twelve months – was a convenient and huge source of revenue for major department stores, most of which were then state-run. More crucially, those who benefited tended to be public sector workers: in return for their services they were receiving coupons either from businesses or individuals who needed help. In effect, public money was being transformed into undetectable private income – ‘grey’ income which formed a large part of these workers’ personal wealth.
What astonished me when I saw the envelope in my sister’s hand was not only that the plain coupons of the old days had evolved into something with the sophisticated look of a credit card, suggesting that its use has been thriving, but the amount that the cards were worth. Having been away from home for over a decade, I asked what now seems a rather stupid question: ‘How come your company did not simply put the money into your salary so that it could be spent whenever and wherever it was needed?’
Delivered in a low voice (even though we were on our own at home), the answer sounded faintly familiar: they were presented as 'festive greetings' – in plain words, a sort of 'bonus' on special occasions which was not accounted for. In this instance, the cash cards were purchased in the name of 'stationery'. Since the amount of stationery which is consumed in a company is unlikely to be tracked down, its real cost becomes an easy target for manipulation, resulting in a much lower payment of tax for all concerned.
Given that no eyebrows were raised when the cards were presented to the cashier, their popularity is obvious.
The irony here is that the company my sister works for is a newspaper which is famous, both at home and abroad, for its candid exposure of financial corruption and other social problems. The dazzling new wealth of China is well known, but not all of it is honestly created, and there are tensions between the old communism and the new capitalism that force even ordinarily respectable people into dubious practices.
The concept of the cash card was not new to me. It was introduced during the 1990s when companies would hand them out to their staff, or those in positions of power, in the form of 'coupons'. Since they were disguised as consumables in the companies’ accounts and never registered officially, the amounts accumulated by their receivers would never show up in their personal income. The practice was ubiquitous: the loss of government tax revenue was such that there was a time when it was banned. To no one’s real surprise, however, it made a quick comeback. The reasons? The cash card – with a validity of only six to twelve months – was a convenient and huge source of revenue for major department stores, most of which were then state-run. More crucially, those who benefited tended to be public sector workers: in return for their services they were receiving coupons either from businesses or individuals who needed help. In effect, public money was being transformed into undetectable private income – ‘grey’ income which formed a large part of these workers’ personal wealth.
What astonished me when I saw the envelope in my sister’s hand was not only that the plain coupons of the old days had evolved into something with the sophisticated look of a credit card, suggesting that its use has been thriving, but the amount that the cards were worth. Having been away from home for over a decade, I asked what now seems a rather stupid question: ‘How come your company did not simply put the money into your salary so that it could be spent whenever and wherever it was needed?’
Delivered in a low voice (even though we were on our own at home), the answer sounded faintly familiar: they were presented as 'festive greetings' – in plain words, a sort of 'bonus' on special occasions which was not accounted for. In this instance, the cash cards were purchased in the name of 'stationery'. Since the amount of stationery which is consumed in a company is unlikely to be tracked down, its real cost becomes an easy target for manipulation, resulting in a much lower payment of tax for all concerned.
Given that no eyebrows were raised when the cards were presented to the cashier, their popularity is obvious.
The irony here is that the company my sister works for is a newspaper which is famous, both at home and abroad, for its candid exposure of financial corruption and other social problems. The dazzling new wealth of China is well known, but not all of it is honestly created, and there are tensions between the old communism and the new capitalism that force even ordinarily respectable people into dubious practices.
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