If You Can't Take a Joke...

by Gordon Gray

  Once this had been explained a few times and the idea understood there were lots of smiling faces.

  We continued with discussions on delivery timescales and very rough orders of magnitude prices for the first batch of completed radars. This seemed to fit their expectations and the atmosphere quickly lightened. We all relaxed a little once we had found the right road to go down and they started to look around the room. We ordered some tea and biscuits. I was watching Mr Wang. It seemed that he had never been in a room like this before. He did not know I was watching but he put out his hand and felt the faded, worn candlewick bedspread with admiration. Then, he looked at me.

  “How many people are living in here?” he demanded.

  “This is Mr Tuthill’s room, so just him,” I said.

  “Just one person!” Mr Wang seemed incredulous. We knew he lived in a small two-room flat with his wife, his baby daughter and his mother. Then, he said, “How much money does Mr Tuthill get each month?”

  I burbled on about wages in the UK being different from China as things are very expensive in England. Thankfully the tea arrived and I got up to open the door. Our efforts that day resulted in a further visit in the January and a contract initially worth over £6 million. This was followed a year or so later by another one of similar size.

  Summer in Shanghai

  The second Marintec Exhibition was in the late summer of 1983. The trip did not start well. Most of the British exhibitors arrived on the same flight from Hong Kong and coaches had been organised to get all the British exhibitors to our nominated hotel, which was in a different part of the city from the Jing Jiang. It took ages for everyone to get checked in, but eventually I got my key and headed for the room.

  As I opened the door, the first thing to hit me was the stifling heat. Then, I was attacked again. This time I was assailed by the most awful smell. I could not place it at first but as I advanced gingerly into the room, I placed it as a stench from something very rotten. The heavy curtains were closed so the room was dark. I found the light and looked around, thinking there must be a dead cat or a rat in the room somewhere. Maybe even the last occupant? The smell was very bad and I was trying not to gag as I looked under the bed. Nothing there. I checked the wardrobe. Empty! What was causing this smell? I opened the curtains to see the room better and as I did so, the smell got even more powerful. The room was at the back of the hotel and overlooked a courtyard. I opened the window and looked out. A couple of Chinese in white kitchen overalls were standing chatting and smoking below me. Then, I saw it. In the corner of the courtyard directly under the window by some rusty dustbins were 5ft high piles of rotting vegetables, meat and bone food scraps. I closed the window and left the room, taking my case with me.

  I went back down to reception. “So sorry, hotel full. That is only room,” was their opening statement when I explained that I wanted to change my room. As the guy had limited English and my Mandarin was not that good, I tried a different tack.

  “Please bring me manager,” I responded. He duly appeared.

  Before I could say anything, he apologised. “Hotel sorry for room,” he said. Oh good I thought, he is going to change my room without any bother. “We very busy today. Big Exhibition, you know. Hotel full. Please accept apologies and hope room soon OK. Try open windows.”

  “I know about the exhibition as I am part of it. I too am very sorry, but that room is not habitable because of the rotten food and kitchen waste outside the window. I will not sleep there. Please either find me another room or another hotel.”

  He and the receptionist busied themselves with their register and after a few minutes, they found me another room on the other side of the building – actually a rather nice one.

  We were told that breakfast was from 0730 until 0900. On the first morning, we did not need to leave the hotel until 0900. So at about 8 o’clock, we started to wander down to the dining room. As we stood at the dining room door, we were greeted with a wonderful sight. The room was large and empty, but the long tables were set. On every place setting, there was a white plate with one fried egg sitting in the middle. The hotel had decided that the British like fried eggs. So at 0730 a fried egg was put on every place, even though no one had yet come down to eat – let alone ordered one.

  The exhibition hall was huge. It had been built for the Chinese by the Russians. We had read about it before we came. ‘Air Conditioned’ they had boasted in their particulars. Air conditioned, my aunt fanny. It was stiflingly hot. The windows were set high up in the walls and the opening mechanisms were jammed. Our stand was in a corner and the sun shone through and down onto us as we sweated away setting up the stand, ready for the opening on the next day. Promises were made by the organisers: “No problem, tomorrow air condition work.” Why do we believe what we want to believe when every other sense and all logic is telling us this is nonsense?

  The next day in our warm western suits, it was a case of “the air condition, she no work”. By 1000, we were all drenched in sweat. Jackets had long been shoved in the back room but our shirts stuck to us like wet rags. Sweat ran down our faces and backs and still the sun shone down through the closed windows. After two days, we were beginning to feel the effects.

  Fortunately, the show closed at lunchtime and we were bussed back to the hotel for lunch. We soon developed a lunchtime routine. Into the room, run a cool to warm bath, peel off wet clothes, lie in bath until cold, get dressed in fresh clothes. Go and grab light lunch and drink lots of mineral water with a handful of salt added, then back onto bus. I felt sorry for the PR lady of one of the UK companies. She had brought thin white blouses with her, but by 1030 each day she may as well have just worn her bra – that was all anyone could see, as her thin blouse went instantly transparent. A wet T-shirt day twice a day, every day!

  During the hot summer months, the streets outside the hotel filled with people at night. These were not people out walking or going anywhere, just the people who lived there, sitting outside in the street to escape the enclosed, airless heat of their tiny houses and apartments. They sat with their children and babies on their door steps, or in chairs carried outside, or just sat on the curbsides. Whole families made the pavements into a communal sitting room. The round, beaming faces of the locals looked up as we passed. “Hello!” “You Blitishers?” “Where you flom?” It was all very happy, in spite of the difference between our hotel and their life on the curbside.

  Along the road sides and pavements and under the grey sad trees were small areas covered with pieces of drying orange skins that the locals dried and then used in their cooking. There were no streetlights and the whole community socialised in the dim night light. The few cars or taxis in those days ran without lights until they saw another car, then they flashed their lights onto full beam and carried on, hoping to miss each other as both drivers were now blinded and without night vision.

  The Navy is here

  On the third day I was setting up the radar display as the show opened, when an attractive young Chinese lady approached me.

  “Excuse me Mr Gary?” she asked.

  “Yes, I am Gordon Gray,” I replied.

  “I am Miss Ling, I am official interpreter for PLA Navy.” She then turned and I saw a group of men standing on the edge of the stand. Most were middle-aged and clearly the one now standing nearest to me was their leader. “These gentlemen are Chinese Navy,” she explained. “Please demonstrate radar to Captain Chang.” Captain Chang bowed, smiled and shook my hand.

  Slowly and deliberately, I explained and demonstrated the radar and each and all of its features; letting the young interpreter absorb the technical points and question me to be sure she had it right before she translated it into Mandarin. It took well over an hour to go through it all and there was then about another hour of discussions and questions; all done through the interpreter. Eventually, they all seemed satisfied. They all shook hands with me and left. “That’s probably the last we will see of them,” I said. “I seemed to
be talking too much and must have bored them silly!”

  The next morning at the same time, I was bending down to adjust some cables when I saw a shapely pair of ankles approaching. I knew instantly who they belonged to and stood up.

  “Ah, Mr Gary. Sorry, Mr Gray, Captain Chang and Chinese Navy would like to negotiate contract for radar.”

  “Oh, that is fantastic,” I said. “When would they like to do that?”

  “Now, please. Can we discuss here?”

  I was stunned. I had imagined that to reach this stage we would have need a number of separate visits to China and possibly even a visit to the UK for the Chinese Navy to see the factory.

  “Er, yes,” I stammered. “Why not? Let’s go in here,” and I led the party into our small, hot back office-cum-storeroom. I asked one of our stand interpreters to arrange cold drinks for the visitors and collared Alan Carnell, who was leading the Racal Decca team at the the show.

  “Alan, I have got the Chinese Navy in there, they want to negotiate an ARPA deal.”

  “Well done,” said Alan. “Do you want me in there too?”

  “Can you come in now and meet them and then let me try and find out exactly what they want first, but if I need help will you be around?”

  “Yes, of course, just shout.”

  I introduced Alan to Captain Chang, Miss Ling and their team. They all seemed very happy to meet a director. We settled down in the hot and stuffy room and began. The Chinese had come with a draft contract and pages of notes. Slowly, we worked our way through the details. I tried my best to be as nice as I could be to the lady interpreter as I knew if she decided she did not like me, she could scupper everything without me even knowing. So I was super nice, I think. I was forever making sure she had a full glass of coke. She certainly smiled at me a lot so I think she realised that I was struggling with this arrangement as much as she was. We spent the morning going through the technical specifications, discussed delivery time scales and quantities for any initial order, as well as some interface questions about other equipments. I gave them rough prices and agreed that we would send a full quotation within two weeks of our return to the UK.

  At lunchtime, I briefed Alan on where we had got to. He seemed happy with the outcome. Alan was always helpful. He had spent years in the export market place, especially in the Far East, when he had been with Plessey. We all felt very comfortable to have him around. In the afternoon, they returned with more questions until, finally, they all seemed satisfied. We all stood up nearly falling over the chairs in the cramped room, shook hands, and they said goodbye to Alan and departed. We had promised to send a full quotation with a few weeks of our return to the UK for a significant quantity of ARPA radars. Happily, this later led to a full contract linked to the work we were doing with the No 4 Radio Factory.

  Chinese Doctor

  On one trip to the Far East, I had been in India for about ten days and then flew on to Beijing to join colleagues there for a defence exhibition. The second night there, I was ill. At first I thought it was just a bad bout of Delhi Belly with sickness thrown in, but it got worse and carried on all through the next day. My usual remedy, Imodium, had no effect at all. My colleague got back from the exhibition and gave me his supply of Kaolin and Morphine, but that had no effect either – even when combined with Imodium. Now, I was getting a bit worried. Had I picked up some Indian bug or some odd tropical disease? There are enough of them in India. Would the Chinese recognise it? Was it serious? How could I stop things happening? It continued for four days and I was now feeling really bad and visibly losing weight. On the fifth day, I rang reception and asked if they had a doctor. No, but they would arrange for me to see one at the International Hospital. I dosed myself up, got dressed and staggered down to reception where they had arranged a taxi to take me to the hospital.

  After about thirty minutes, I was called in to see the doctor. The doctor was standing up as I went into the surgery. I was met by a tall Chinese lady called Dr Tang. She was well dressed in a smart dark skirt and white blouse under her crisp white coat, and she was smiling at me. She had glistening, raven black hair, cut in a neat bob and when she spoke it was with an American accent. She was lovely. I felt better immediately and even in my weakened state, I fell instantly in love. I described my situation to her and she then asked me to describe, in some lurid detail, what was happening with my body. (I shall spare you that bit).

  Then, she said, “Oh, that’s fine. You just have a bad dose of the Gastro Enteritis. There is a lot of it in Beijing at the moment. I was off with it last week.” (She was so lovely I could not imagine that anything nasty ever affected her). “Take these pills and you will be OK in a day or two.” I floated out of her surgery on a cloud of love and gratitude, and two days later, I was better. Just in time for the last two days of the exhibition.

  The Cake

  It so happened that my birthday fell during one of the periods we were in Shanghai. I was sure that no one knew it was my birthday and certainly did not advertise the fact. However, someone, perhaps the secretary back in the office, had alerted one of the guys about it. On the day when we got back to the hotel, I was told we were all meeting in the dining room as our training manager wanted a chat with us all. The guys from the stand and the two local Chinese girls, who were acting as interpreters for us, all filed into the dining room. I meekly and naively followed. Once there, we found that the dining room was empty. The eight of us then sat at a large, round table and Tony, the training manager from the training school, called over the waitress and ordered tea for everyone and then asked for the ‘Cake’ to be brought out. He looked at me and chuckled as he said it.

  “Oh no,” I cried. “Who told you lot?” General laughter but I did get a hint as to who was behind it. One young lady in the office would receive a ticking off when I got back! Out came the girl carrying a very large and very pink cake. The pink icing had a glossy sheen to it and it had my name on the top in lime green icing. Where the green met the pink, the colours had run, but never mind – it was a big cake! After the usual ‘Happy Birthday’ song and a small thank you speech from yours truly, a large carving knife was produced and I cut the cake.

  The cake itself was a smallish sponge cake covered by about an inch of this thick, pink, shiny, slightly oily icing. The icing stuck to the knife, but I managed to separate them, served everyone up with a slice and we all tucked in. Well, that is until we tasted the icing. It was awful. It tasted of oil. However, as ‘guest of honour’, I could say nothing. The others could say nothing either as our two local Chinese interpreter girls would be offended at our poor respect for the Chinese bakery. We struggled on, trying to drown the taste with more Chinese tea. Several of the guys were shuffling icing around their plates and making polite and diplomatic noises about how nice it all was. We were all very conscious that it was in the very early days of westerners going into China and that these girls did not live in luxury. I was sure that a big iced cake like this was not something they would have at home very often, if at all. China had just come through the years of deprivation during the Cultural Revolution and we were the first westerners that they had met; so we did not want to insult them by giving them the impression that we thought their idea of a beautiful big iced cake was horrible.

  Finally, after we had drunk the tea, everyone said that they did not want any more cake. Now as I am not an expert cake cutter, there was about a quarter of the cake left over.

  “Oh, Mr Gray, you must take it home,” the girls said.

  “No, I cannot do that as it will be squashed in my suitcase! But you two must take it home now and share it with your families tonight while it is fresh.”Problem solved, I thought.

  “Oh, we could not do that” said the older one. “We would not give that to our family. They could not eat that.”

  “Why not?” I asked.

  “Because the topping on that cake tastes horrible.”

  Beijing: Forbidden City

  Marintec China.
Alan Carnell, Tony Brookes and Mr G

  Seminar for the Electronics Institute in Guangchou

  The Racal Team in Marintec

  The Great Wall

  CHAPTER 4

  Korea

  Curfew 1981

  Outside the train windows it had been dark for a couple of hours, but I knew we must be on the outskirts of Seoul as the train had slowed down and some passengers were beginning to get their things together ready to get off. The train rumbled slowly over another set of points on the approaches to Seoul Station. Mr K.Y. Lee, our agent, who was sitting beside me, kept muttering that the time was getting on. We had missed our planned train from Ulsan as we had been held up in meetings in Hyundai Shipyard for much longer than we had wanted. However, this train was on time, as nearly all Korean trains are, and we would be in Seoul by 11.00pm.

  I detected a strong air of nervousness in the carriage as we slowed right down again and then we saw that the train was gliding slowly into Seoul station. It stopped without a jolt and everyone was on their feet and making for the exit. Once the train doors opened, there was a stampede along the platform. I was blissfully unaware of the cause for this panic that had suddenly gripped my fellow passengers. I assumed it was because they all wanted to get home to their families for the weekend.

  KY pushed me out. “We must run!” he shouted and left me as he set off with the rest of the stampede.