Yesterday was a sunny Sunday, so of course we spent it visiting a prison and torture complex. The US-Chiang Kaishek Criminal Acts Exhibition Hall and SACO prisons, to give it its official title. Run by the Kuomintang with the support of the US, according to official history, and burned – and all the prisoners shot – on November 27, 1949. This, says our interpreter Red, is the place to visit in Chongqing. It was packed with Chinese, who must have found it fascinating, because, unlike in every other country where I have been a tiny white minority, they didn't give the two lao wai's (whiteys) a second glance. Many men proudly displayed the “Hot Chinese Man” look, where the t-shirt is hitched up to either just below the nipples or just above. A paunch is a common accessory. The women stick to fans.
It had everything you'd expect of a decent prison and torture complex: an array of vile torture instruments, including a nail-studded cudgel and many rusty iron manacles and chains, lots of displays- some, kindly, in English – extolling the courage and bravery of the “martyrs,” including Little Radish, who was imprisoned with his Communist Party activist parents at the age of eight months and shot with his parents at the age of eight. His body was so malnourished, his head looked huge, hence – though the hence is still mysterious to me, given my understanding of radishes – he was given the nickname Little Radish. His other nickname is The Youngest Martyr in China.
One display listed the tortures dispensed by the Kuonmintang on the brave Communist Party martyrs. The list gave the name of the torture and a detailed explanation (or “lanation,” as one notice board advertising the services of the Explanation Office used instead). It included “iron engraving”, which involves ironing a person's skin; “hung little duckling above water”, which involves some tortuously painful position which I've forgotten; “hang half the pig”, whereby a person is strung up by one arm; another one where a person is tied to a bench and sat upright against a pole or something, then a very heavy log is pressed on the knees and the calves are raised on bricks (that is where the broken legs come in). The most inventive and geographically appropriate is the “burn pepper aroma”, where chilli is burned into incense sticks, a person is hideously strung up and then chilli incense is burned under his/her nose. It is geographically appropriate because Szichuan is famed for the spiciness of its food and – according to Mr. W. and Mr. C., our drivers – its women.
After two hours of education in Party martyrdom and torture, combined with 38 degree heat and no food, I wilted at the foot of some steep steps leading up to yet another prison. Luckily, halfway up the steep steps was a noodle stall. The noodles were indifferent but they could have been abominable and I'd have eaten them. It was fuel, not food. There was also sweet cold soup, with some gelatinous stuff in it that was probably sago, and a sort of caramel taste. The noodle lady was tickled that we could use chopsticks. Simon muttered something about she could go to England and he'd happily congratulate her patronisingly on using a knife and fork, but I didn't mind. I'm surprised I can use chopsticks too.
Dinner was at Mr. W's house. Mr. W. had driven Simon and Red to the Burmese border and back. He is a self-educated man who likes to read things like Sherlock Holmes, Balzac (Bauzac in Chinese) and Boccaccio in translation. Mr. and Mrs W. live in a spacious flat with a yapping dog, and had prepared quite a feast of chicken soup, duck, beans and corn. The beans were very tasty, and I asked him how he had prepared them. He said, “oh, very simple: cook the beans, add garlic and salt.” I said, yes but they're tastier than that. “Oh yes, and MSG.” Except in Chinese MSG is known as “flavour essence.”
We were offered beer and 50% proof local liqueur to which Mr. W. had added mandarin oranges. Mr. W. knocked back the 50% proof liqueur; I sipped it and coughed. Simon managed a whole glass-ful. We had brought Mr. W a bottle of cognac, which he refused to open. Upon being pressed, he admitted he didn't like it. He also doesn't like Western food though the only evidence of Western food I've seen in Chongqing is a bright and gleaming KFC, so I can forgive him that.
Despite the liqueur, Mr. W looked to be in perfect health, which was odd, as he had given up the driving job because he had apparently broken his leg. After much liqueur, he finally admitted that his leg was fine, but that his daily allowance was so pitiful, he had lost money on the Burma trip and he wasn't going to go back to the company. This led to a long discussion by Red on the iniquity of indecent business practices in the new China. I just said that that's what you get with capitalism, and ate more beans.
Off now to Chengdu, for biogas and pandas. Or we would be, if the driver ever turns up. Perhaps he's broken his leg.