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COMMUNIST China is a Libra

"Born in October, Communist China is a Libra, and like any true Libra it lives by finicky scales that divide time between perfect balance and confused outburst."

I sat back in satisfaction at crafting this clever open to my dispatch from the Beijing airport Hilton, where I'd arrived moments earlier to report on Communist China's 50th birthday party.

As an aspiring member of the eastern U.S. media elite, I was eager to explore these mysterious Librans and their vexing Libra ways. Moreover, I was eager to impress upon my Visigoth editors back home, that - yes - I am among that rare and chosen western few who can understand the cultural matrix pedestrians call the "Chinese puzzle."

Expecting gongs, dragons, fireworks, leaping ballet dancers dressed like soldiers, and marchers waving gigantic flags to arrive with my room service order, I pondered the wily nature of these clever people. Hours passed, yet no one appeared. Neither did my carefully ordered Chili Dog, fries and Big Gulp. Hungry and hurt, I ventured out for the nearest McDonalds. More than simply find a Red Square Big Mac, I hoped to bring back a second line to my clever open.

Walking with my "minder" through approved city routes I watched soldiers, who must have given up their ballet careers, goose step in lock step along freeway wide boulevards, apparently on their way home from work. Along for the commute was the cavalcade of military hardware that dictators - and U.S. victors from Dessert Storm - seem to delight in carting through city streets to mark authoritarian occasions. Like that future day of all civilized dreams, when the United Nations bans Sweden from producing any further rock music, I wondered if true global civilization might arrive when the U.N. also bans any cavalcade of military hardware carted through city streets. Follow that up with a ban on all and any goose stepping, and we might finally prove Darwin's theory that humans did actually evolve, eventually.

Anyway. Pen poised, my K-mart capitalist note pad at the rough and ready, I managed a few words with a few "true" Chinese during those precious moments when my minder excused himself to use the bathroom.

"We don't want to become like the Russians," one random and conveniently English speaking street contact told me, "that's why we must build freedom gradually. China is not yet ready for full emancipation."

I scribbled in upside down characters, from right to left, in a pre-emptive scheme to baffle any overly inquisitive authority figure peeking at my keen observations.

"Bull Conner," I blurted.

"Bull ..." my contact was struggling to understand.

"Onetime southern U.S. sheriff, and accomplished country-philosopher-poet. He said something similar once."

"Was Sheriff Conner like Premier Zhu?"

I looked around nervously to see who might overhear me agree to the comparison. "Bull never had quite the money sense of Zhu."

"Perhaps China is like the United States then," my contact pressed, "but with more money sense."

"China is more like Paraguay," I allowed, "with a much better ballet."

Before I could explain further, my minder returned, zipping his pants and pointed out our next stop at something like the "Great Temple to the Worker's Democratic Hall of the People's Slave Labor Cooperative."

Moments later, we arrived at the Nike factory. Even grander than my dreams, I marveled at its beneficence. Mouth agape, I looked down at my own well worn Air Jordans, quickly appreciating how much more they might have cost me if the Chinese had taken this crazy democracy thing too far too fast. Showing respect, I put my note pad aside. Then, quickly calculating on my fingers, estimated how I might expand my savings into, say, a year or two of free SOHO rent, if only those persnickety out-of-touch pests in Washington would accept China into the WTO.

For nearly two centuries now, global traders have dreamed of China as the Wall Mart of nation states - an Asian mall where you could sell anything to everyone, cheap. With my spare hand, I ticked off two centuries of Chinese-western trade hallmarks, from the Opium Wars and Boxer Rebellion, to Deng Xiaoping and "constructive engagement."

Winking at commodore Perry and savoring future riches, I asked if I could personally greet some of the fine factory employees who served my consumer friends and me so well over the years. My minder was quick to oblige.

There was the kindly teacher who had decided to "switch careers" during the Cultural Revolution; the airport baggage handler for Lin Biao who chose to relocate; the Ph.D. student who "got tired of all that damn studying" sometime around the Tiananmen uprising. Running the rubber soul department was a pleasant old man who got his start as a farm hand before moving into the scrap metal business during the Great Leap Forward. It was a rich experience indeed. One I'll always treasure.

As I waved a hearty goodbye to my exotic new factory friends I couldn't help but note that in the same number of years most U.S. men accomplish little more than a comb-over to match their midlife crisis, China had built a true worker's paradise.

Fathoming now that I could never fully fathom these mysterious folk, I boarded my plane back to New York, satisfied that they practiced different ways in a different land as incomprehensible as the rice paper I had used to brush my teeth during the trip.

Standing outside on the tarmac bidding me adieu, my minder had the expression of a job well done etched across his face. Raising an in-flight Pabst Blue Ribbon mini-bottle to toast China at 50, I surveyed this proud country from my window, scratched my head, pursed my lips, and thought - bravo Libra, and encore.

Yours truly,
Xandor

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