Ah, even those righteous middle-Europeans already know about that.
"The Yangtze River is known for its floods, which has cost the lives of three million people in the last 100 years."
Impressive. My Population Sciences professor from university would be happy about this. He loved natural disasters and wars, and used to calculate how many people would be living on the earth today, if there hadn’t been any devastating disasters every now and then. His views on this subject were not always politically correct, but he was not entirely wrong. In the 14th century, about one-third of Europe's population fell victim to the plague - 25 million people died back than. If these 25 million would have survived and propagated over the centuries, approximately 300 million more people would be living in Europe today. This means 300 million more people consuming resources and producing waste.
There are various calculations about how many people the world can sustain; the results vary between seven and twelve billion. Currently, about 6.9 billion people are living on earth; let’s hope the scenario with the seven billion is wrong.
A sugar-sweet Asian serves my beer, and I put the guide aside. The bar certainly has style, the beer is ice-cold and, on the pre-chilled glass, the first few drops of condensation begin to form. The waitress fills the beer into the glass and takes the empty bottle away with her. Dangerous. I could drink one beer after the other all day, just to admire the visually stunning, thin layer of ice on each new glass. Mmmmm…
Just when I’m about to take my first sip of the wonderful beverage, a bloodcurdling voice cuts through the peaceful surroundings. I haven’t heard such a penetrating nagging with that “know-it-all” undertone since my school days. The sound of that wretched tone of voice immediately conjures memories of my last German teacher. She had the habit of standing right behind me, and with her index finger, she used to touch my notebook. When doing so, her armpit came dangerously close to my nose. That alone was enough to make me nauseous. After she had removed her finger from my book, a grease spot would remain on the paper. When I had a German lesson at 11 a.m., I wasn’t usually in the mood for lunch afterwards.
"Paul-Johann, what is this now?" Barks the ‘lady’ behind me. "Do you want more, or should I pack away the Minna?! Look at the man in front of us. He is drinking beer already. At this time! It is barely noon. Paul-Johann, just be careful never to let yourself go like that. How antisocial; that's not normal!"
A German! Here on a deathtrap in the dirty waters of a Shanghai harbor, I ironically run into a German of the worst kind. People like this should be punished for sheer ignorance; however, my interest is piqued. What is a “Minna”?
I turn around and catch sight of a chubby woman that looks quite unkempt, despite the massive layers of makeup. Her left breast is exposed and a three-year-old in front of it reaffirms he’s no longer hungry.
If I were a cartoon character, my eyes would now be twice the size and about two feet in front of me. A big thought bubble with a huge question mark in front of an even bigger exclamation point would also appear above my head.
Holy cow, the child can walk and talk, and she’s still breastfeeding it!
I watch the little boy and feel sorry for him. Really, he didn’t have a choice of mothers.
"Hi Paul, do me a favor and ask your mother how many people she thinks drink a beer at lunch and how many mothers still breastfeed a three-year-old. This will show what’s not normal here!"
Caught and ashamed, because I understood her speaking German, she can think of nothing better than to teach me:
"His name is Paul-Johann, with a hyphen. There is nothing healthier in the world than breast milk. But you obviously don’t know too much about health.”
I turn back to the kid, addressing him deliberately with a wrong name:
"Paul-Bertram, I hope you don’t suck too much of your mother’s character into you; you still seem so nice."
Wonderful, I hit the mark. She now screams at me:
"His name is Paul-Johann..."
"Why? Don’t you like him?" I interrupt.
She swallows. "How dare you!"
I continue: "When you bring a child into the world, it’s small and helpless and cute. How can you possible name it Paul-Johann! Give a child a good name; a name that suits him and one he won’t be constantly teased about later in life."
"You have some nerve! What gives you the right to..."
Then she can think of nothing more.
"Too bad," I say, "I had you pegged as someone a little more quick-witted. It’s no fun like this. But I would like to answer your last question by asking you one: Who gives you the right to accuse strangers of being ‘antisocial?’ I’ll leave you alone now and go look for a conversation partner that doesn’t insult strangers behind their back. I wish you and Paul-August a nice day. Enjoy the tour!"
When standing up, I respectfully bow, before vanishing from their orbit. You must always be especially polite with disrespectful people.
On the way to the front of the ship, my phone rings. It's Alex.
"I don’t have a Mr. Evans for you, but would a Mrs. Evans do the trick?"
My heat skips a beat: "Fire away!"
"Elizabeth Evans, goes by ‘Liz’: 45 years old, athletic, American. Her father had a rather insignificant shipping company in California, which she inherited. At first it went downhill: they couldn’t compete with the prices of the major shipping companies.
Suddenly she began frantically buying more ships, but not new ones. She bought practically every ship that was on its way to Alang."
"Hold on a sec; imagine I have absolutely no clue about the shipping industry."
"Okay: so ships have a kind of expiration date. Due to the constant rocking, the material fatigues. Depending on the design a ship, it should be scrapped after 25 to 35 years. The ships mostly get dismantled in India; the most famous port for this is Alang."
"So she bought decrepit boats."
"Exactly. You get those old things for a dime on the dollar. However, it’s not easy to operate a shipping company with old carriers. The insurance premiums for freighters like that are horrendous, and leasing companies won’t take them."
"Lease?"
"Normally, a shipping company buys the ship. It then gets leased by a company that takes care of the cargo. The shipping company finances the vessels and keeps them in good shape. The leasing company takes care of most of the capacity utilization. Without the help of a leasing company, it’s difficult to get any cargo on the ships. The leasing companies operate globally and work closely with carriers and parcel services."
“So Mrs. Evans buys old ships pretty cheap, but those are extremely expensive to maintain and don’t bring in much money. Right?"
"That’s one way of putting it, yes. Plus, shipping companies keep their ships in pretty good shape. Even if insurance covers major damage to the ship, it can’t help the immense damage to the company’s reputation. When a vessel sinks, the shipping company can basically just walk away. Your fine Mrs. Evans is laying it all on the line. But as I said, she was already actually broke when she started to buy old ships. No one in the industry knows where she got the money from or how her business model works. But apparently it does: she owns residences all over the world, has lots of fancy cars, travels only first class and spends money like water."
"Well that sounds like she has something to hide!"
"Indeed! Just be careful, the lady can extend the claws."
"Alex - do you know her or have you met her before?"
"That pleasure has escaped me so far, but I have a picture of her. She’s camera shy, but a friend of mine accidentally took a picture of her. She’s standing in the background at a reception at the American Embassy in China. The photo is already in your email inbox. By the way: her shipping company is called ‘GSS,’ which stands for ‘Golden State Shipping,’ probably a tribute to their home country. California is also called ‘The Golden State.’ Normally shipping companies have bonded warehouses
in each port, where the goods are stored before they go through customs. Maybe you can find theirs in Shanghai. But I'm warning you again: be careful!"
Chapter 10
After the phone call with Alex, my nerves are even more rickety than the barge I’m sailing around the harbor on. I need a fresh beer to calm down. With a new Lone Star in hand, I lean on the railing and look at the Shanghai skyline. Next to me, someone quotes from a guidebook: "The 1,535-foot-high Oriental Pearl Tower was, at its completion, the tallest building in China."
Earlier, I was embarrassed at how little I know about Shanghai. Every European knows about New York. Strange, with the population of Manhattan at a mere 1.6 million inhabitants, it’s not even one-tenth the size of Shanghai. Why is everyone so fixated on America! Why don’t we learn Chinese in school and do our student exchanges here? America will stumble over its own arrogance sooner or later - rather sooner than later. China is the future. But Europe lets itself get blended by Uncle Sam and shrugs China off as some stupid third-world country. Big mistake.
But since Alex’s call, I don’t care about China anymore. I have new information and want to continue my research. However, I’m stuck on this floating rust bucket and can’t do anything about it for the next three hours.
The smart-ass guy with his tourist guide reads so loud, he’s basically giving the complete boat a lecture: "...the Pearl Tower got surpassed in 2008 by the Shanghai World Financial Centre, which towers it by 72 feet."
Annoyed, I try to find a quieter corner. What’s all this fuss about damn gigantism? In Asia, everything must always be the highest, biggest, fastest, most expensive or best. The Chinese still seem to suffer from an inferiority complex. Incomprehensible; they have clearly demonstrated to the world who has the real stones by building the Great Wall thousands of years ago.
Something is wrong with this world. The Americans consider themselves the benchmark for everything, even though the country is broke and their domestic problems are overwhelming. Good thing the only thing they’re losing is wars.
The Asians have the world by the balls. Far more than half of all consumer goods are produced there, and they own more dollars than the US. Without Asia, nothing moves at all anymore. Nevertheless, they constantly try to prove to themselves and to the world that they are able to build the fastest, highest or best.
Europe has little to say in the matter. Each country is only interested in itself: the proud Spaniards, the arrogant Frenchmen, the macho Italians or the British, who, well, just like being British. But there’s no real cohesion. No one says, "I am European!" No, they all still think narrow-mindedly within their small country's borders.
Yet all the European nations look up to America without realizing that they would actually have to look down to see it.
The Germans, yes, the Germans... they are good at making others look good. The Transrapid in Asia - German technology. The first American moon rocket - built by German engineers. The list is endless: LCD technology; the Walkman; fax machine; bikes; hybrid engines; the MP3 standard; jeans; the phone; and last but not least: the German national pride… robbed by an Austrian with a comb-over. The world is really crazy. Sometimes I think I’m the only sane man under the sun!
"Another beer?" the gorgeous waitress interrupts my thoughts.
"Yeah, just bring two; then you won’t have to walk so much!"
Ha, speaking of gigantism: it’s surely clear which nation built the longest and highest wall in their own country!
Anyway, I'm proud to be a German - even if you’re still not allowed to say that out loud, almost 70 years after the combed-over Austrian.
An endless three hours later, our scrap heap slams violently against the pier and we dock. I look around to see if someone claps, but the package tourists apparently only do that on a plane.
I take a tuk-tuk back to the hotel. My driver understands what I mean by "urgent," and every curve on two screeching tires increases his tip.
I run into my room and switch the netbook on. I open multiple tabs in the browser and google in separate windows "Elizabeth Evans," "GSS," "Golden State Shipping" and "Evans GSS." At the same time, I download my emails and open the photo from Alex's mail. Who said that men are not capable of multi-tasking?!
The Internet search doesn’t help much. To be precise, it doesn’t help at all.
"Your search yielded no results."
I’m puzzled; nowadays every company has a website. It seems as if there’s no woman and no shipping company called Evans or "GSS." For safety's sake, I google other shipping companies. Who knows, maybe those are all secretive and the shipping industry works only on contacts. But, no, all other ship-owning companies have fancy websites including corporate videos, a quick overview of the company’s history, self-flattery, and descriptions of their highly modern fleet and evidently overqualified personnel.
Seems like the shipping business works like any other: one crying louder than the other, claiming it’s the best and forcing itself into the foreground where it can. Charity events, sports sponsorships, fundraisers, newspaper articles and more.
Only Madame Evans seems to follow the exact opposite with her "GSS."
No matches.
Even my neighbor’s dog has its own website and facebook account. But that's another story I can’t tell without being abusive.
No matches.
This doesn’t happen by accident. You almost have to make an effort to be invisible. Something is always on the Internet, even if you don’t want it to be and don’t run your own site.
No matches.
I google all possible port names on both the Asian and American Pacific coasts, looking for ship and age-related accidents, and reading in the tabloids about the dirty business of dubious ship owners.
No fucking matches!
After three hours of Internet research, one thing is clear: Liz Evans doesn’t want to be found and she’s really good at it!
Just when I summarize the conclusions of the fruitless day in an email to Steve, I receive one from him.
From: [email protected]
To: [email protected]
Subject: Day 3
Sent: October 05, 22:47:59 HST
Ahoy Ernie,
Our mutual friend returned to Kahoolawe early this morning. This time I personally watched him through the binoculars and could therefore also shoot some reasonably sharp video. I was right: it’s definitely the other speedboat towing the floating pontoon. In fact, there‘s a sea container on the pontoon. The footage from yesterday is, as mentioned, somewhat fuzzy, but I'm sure today was a different container than yesterday.
Today’s container was red and had a white label. On yesterday’s video recordings, the container is indeed hard to see, but it’s definitely blue.
Maybe Christine is right and Andrews is actually dealing in illegal weapons.
I think he met the freighter they had talked about out at sea and exchanged a container full of explosives for an empty one.
This would be a super trade-off for him: first, he’s getting paid to clean up Kahoolawe, and then he turns around and sells the explosives, which he got for free to start with.
How are things at your end?
Aloha,
The “Berti"
So Andrews exchanges containers at sea. Steve's theory is a good one. Right now, I can’t think of a better explanation. Would be interesting to know what actually happens with defused explosives? They’re unlikely to get stored or recycled; probably they’re detonated in a controlled environment somewhere. If that’s the case, no one could tell how much or whether anything at all was actually blown up.
For Andrews, it would be easy to let tons of high explosives disappear.
Until now, I thought the ultimate business would be to own a nuclear power plant. In the 60s and 70s, nuclear power was subsidized so heavily, the state virtually gave you the power plant for free.
You sell the electricity, proudly declaring higher profits every year. Shortly after,
you hand out a press release stating that the current price is not sufficient to maintain the grid, and you unfortunately have to raise prices. Strangely, people believe that, and the following year you make even more profit. Once the fuel assembly is consumed and radioactive waste is produced, you call in the government, who sends a nuclear waste transportation container over and picks up the garbage. You leave transport and storage of the waste to the government and get paid by the taxpayers’ money.
While all people rejoice how cheap nuclear power is, and even thank me for it, no one realizes that they’re paying for their power with their own taxes, and you get richer and richer each day.
Andrews has a similar business model. He steals bombs from the state, while getting paid by the government to destroy them. Well, nuclear power is no longer in vogue, so you have to find other business models. Pretty clever, our Mr. Andrews.
Half way to Hawaii Page 14