Martian Terrain

The haggling starts when you laugh, preferably through your nose, at the price of object in your hands.

Don’t show fear, don’t show amusement or wonder, and don’t exhibit any of the other tell-tale signs of being a tourist, like looking up without any apparent purpose, for example, or smiling inanely. And whatever you do, don’t even think about accepting any price that is written down.

Everything in Shenzhen is negotiable, because everything in Shenzhen is fake.

Shenzhen is Hong Kong’s ugly step-sister, and sits just inside the Chinese border, about 20 minutes north, by rail, from Hong Kong’s sky-scraping city centre. The city plays host to a million souls, all of whom seem to be selling something or building something.

The city convulses with capitalism, it oozes industry, and every eye glistens with the expectation of a buck.

When you step off the train and present your poker-face for inspection at the border post, use the opportunity to get some practice. These candid scans of the border guards are nothing compared with what you will face in your negotiations, but it always pays to practice your passport face, your poker face, in front of professionals.

Fight your way through the swarms of home-coming Chinese, the sniping taxi drivers, the policemen moping around looking bored, and head north. You will find yourself at the foot of a blue-glass building with a Canon sign on its roof. In retrospect, when you leave this town and pass the sign again on your way out, you may wonder if the sign is real.

The building beneath the sign is the Luo Wu Commercial Centre, and it sits reflective and icy like a vault, like a bank, like an ice anvil. But when you step inside it, the colours change from watery blue to a riot of reds and greens in a dreamy free-for-all of lights and mirrors. You are inside a candy-shop of consumerism, six floors of stores overflowing into passageways with shoes and shirts, watches and bags, popcorn and tea.

Now, even the most hardened of mall-rats among you may find this riotous assembly a little bewildering at first, so the best thing to do is to browse around for a while, trying to look purposeful, trying to look severe and certain. You will need to soak up the atmosphere a bit, and acclimatize to the lights and the noise, before you actually attempt to buy anything. And while you acclimatize, you need to have your shields firmly raised.

“Mister? Missy? DVD? Rolex?”

Don’t answer, don’t even twitch. Play the deaf, dumb and blind kid and you’ll be OK. You’re not ready for DVDs yet. First you need to buy you first random object to get your feet wet, to learn the language of barter and bargain, to get your first introduction to the pocket negotiator. So pick a shop, pick an object (it doesn’t have to be desirable, this is just a trial run). Pick it up, look skeptical, and wait for the right moment to get things going.

As I mentioned to you before I got distracted, the haggling starts when you laugh, preferably through your nose, at the price of object in your hands. I cannot emphasise enough how essential this step is, because you are on a sticky wicket from the start. There will be a price penciled onto a label somewhere, and the purpose of this price is simply to establish an anchor for your mind. Everything south of this is a bargain, to the uninitiated, so you need to be smarter; you need to be harder than that.

Derisive, dismissive, incredulous! Pack it all in to this initial snort of yours. Don’t be afraid to ham it up, it’s all part of the fun. You need to establish right from the start that the price you have been told would be insulting were it not so laughably unlikely. The English of your bargaining partner will be limited (often that is part of the act) so it is essential that you master these body-words early on.

If you do it properly (don’t worry, it takes us all a while to learn) then you will have disintegrated his price ceiling with your imperious snort. Now it’s time to set a floor. For most of the objects you will find in this mall the floor is 100 Hong Kong dollars. Since everything is fake, brands don’t matter, brands don’t cost. Think of raw materials, think of cheap labour, and put some oomph into it.

‘This isn’t worth more than a hundred dollars,’ often works as an opening gambit. You can sometimes destabilize greener opponents with this one. You will know this is happening when you see a glint of glee through a careless gap in his mask. Quietly establish your superiority, nothing fancy, nothing showy. ‘Hong Kong Dollars,’ is all it takes.

Now it’s his turn to ham it up, and boy, it doesn’t matter how late in the day it is, or how many thousands of times he has done it, he still puts on a great show, just for you and your wallet. Often laughter plays a big role in this stage too. Really, a lot of fun can be had once you find your feet. He will laugh, you will laugh, mutual hilarity at each other’s preposterous positions.

If you survive this stage without parting with any money, you have done well. Take a deep, well-concealed breath. The laughter stage marks the end of the beginning, and out will come the pocket calculator.

Now, the modern pocket calculator has many uses, and most of them involve calculation of some kind. But in Shenzhen, as in most of Asia, pocket calculators are not living up to their name. No, here the bits and bytes have a simpler purpose, here the noble pocket calculator rolls up its sleeves, cracks its knuckles, and prepares to negotiate.

It is important to be misunderstood, while negotiating. Never show your true self, never let on that you really, really want it, or that you really, really don’t. Hide it all, disguise it all. But there is one thing on which you must remain perfectly understood at all times: your price. Use the pocket calculator, use the pocket negotiator, to set it down in irrefutable quartz.

Having attempted to dazzle you by the sudden introduction of technology, your opponent will now soften his smile a little, let you get just a little bit closer to the human beneath. It’s a good cop bad cop routine all in one human being. The mocking laughter and the threatening use of technology, followed up by an open smile, a tactful widening of the eyes, and an offer.

‘OK OK,’ he submits, ‘for you today, a special price.’

Then, brimming with the joy of the generous, he lovingly taps out a figure on the fat fingertips of the pocket negotiator. Traditionally, the figure is 5-10% less than the original offer, and the purpose of the offer is simple. By making a large human concession and a minor financial one, your opponent attempts to establish the sticky nature of his price. Look, his eyes will tell you, I am now being about as nice as I have been to anyone today, and 5% is as nice as it gets.

It is very, very important now that you do not lose your grip. Do not be taken in by all this humanity, it is false and wicked. Do, however, appear to be taken in. This is one of those times when it is good to be misunderstood. Before he shows you the reduced offer, try to be seen as the skeptical, but grateful recipient of an unexpected bounty.

Don’t overdo it, though, because when your eyes do in fact widen at the price he will show you, it may be difficult to swing from an overly-brimming heart into the next stage. Only the real professionals can do it well. Some of you may already have guessed at the next stage? Yes, that’s right, it definitely involves the nose again. The dismissive, derisive snort needs to be deployed again, but this time you have to show you mean business.

After executing your snort, turn, on your heel if you have one, and walk out of the store. Don’t be afraid, remember you picked an object at random and you don’t even want it. You need to get used to letting go, because sometimes you will have to, sometimes you will need to choke back your tears and forego that fake Armani sweater or that counterfeit Omega.

Leaving is hard to do, but it is absolutely vital. If you cannot execute this step, if you remain in the thrall of the object, your opponent will reel you in. And remember, the longer you spend negotiating, the harder it will be to walk out. When you are prepared to walk after spending 45 minutes negotiating for a 10 dollar gain on a pair of tattered woolen fake something-or-other gloves, then you have truly mastered the art of letting go.

So do it, now. Leave.

Snort, and then walk right out that door. He will call you back. Oh yes, he will. The fun is just beginning. If you have positioned yourself well, your opponent may feel obliged to stretch out an instinctive paw to grasp your shirt sleeve. This sign of desperation, this twitch of weakness, is yours to play with. Look him in the eye, show him you know, you KNOW, and continue to walk.

But don’t walk too far, or too hard. Don’t play too tough, mister, don’t run too fast, missy, because if you walk out of earshot then it is you who has to come back, to show weakness, to lose face. And then he will smile, and look you in the eye, and add another 50 dollars to his final acceptance price.

You will now have to settle in to an easy pace, a steady jog, because every negotiation requires stamina. Remember, your opponent is fit. You don’t want to find yourself gasping for air when you need every ounce of strength to execute an about turn, or a skeptical tug on a ragged zipper, or a theatrical flounce.

You will certainly need to leave the store a few times, and sometimes you may even need to mean it: he will not hesitate to push you that far if he thinks you are a novice, a greenhorn, who will come back in tears with cash in hand.

You will also need a lot of patience, remember you are dealing with a civilization that is older than yours, and they have been waiting a long time for this moment. You will find yourself wondering if another hour’s tough talk and about turning and snorting is worth another five dollars, and here you must follow your gut, follow your heart. If you are prepared to lose the game, then that is your prerogative. But take it from me: losing becomes a habit, and the margins just get bigger.

Practice a few times, and be sure not to buy the object the first few times. Learn your strengths, work on your weaknesses. Learn to feel that you don’t need it, whatever it is, because you probably don’t, and even if you do, you need to feel like you don’t. Get into your stride, find your style. And when you start to get the feel of the game, let yourself go.

Follow the children whispering ‘DVD’ to the sealed-off rooms on the fifth floor. Wonder how they manage to get away with a sealed room in this place, wonder how they manage to find so many appalling music CDs. Wonder why all the brothel-faced westerners in this stuffy little room look so sheepish, so guilty, why they show such weakness so soon before an important negotiation.

Have some fun in the shoe shops. Here the negotiation is made easier by the obvious flimsiness of the merchandise. ‘But it’s rubbish!’ you will exclaim frequently, twanging the brittle rubber or plucking out a loose thread. And if you really want to put some heat on the negotiations, ask for some Air Jordans or the latest Adidas trainers, and watch as the ventilation panel in the ceiling opens, and a box appears in a disembodied hand. Observe the sideways glances of your opponent as he tries to double-time you to his price before the lackadaisical fuzz arrives. Take your time.

And when you are ready for the big time, tour the watch shops, the wondrous watch shops which never sell any of their watches. They will draw you into the shop with the chunky-looking no-name brands in the window, and then proceed to offer you a Rolex, or a Tag, or an Omega. You won’t see any of these brands in the shop - no, if you nibble they will take you by the hand onto another floor, somewhere deeper in this nest of shops, behind a wall or a fitting room, through a secret panel to a cold, grey, concrete room.

This is where the hard ball is played. This is the big league, the high stakes table. With a steely eye, a lantern jaw, and a nose that means business, take your seat at the table and unholster your pocket negotiator. Prepare to start haggling.

"Why do you do it?"

This was the first question my girlfriend (or life partner, as she now prefers to be called) asked me when I told her about this blog. Good question, I thought, but I haven't ever really answered it. It isn't for the money, because there isn't any. But it still wouldn't be for the money if there were any in it, so why on earth do I do it?

First, a confession: I have also always wanted to be published, and have written several articles which failed to make it past the editor's desk. Unfortunately for the tyranny of established media, the internet now allows me to be my own editor, and unleash my copy on anyone foolish enough to request it. So frustrated journalism is part of the reason for my blog, and perhaps for many others out there.

But I think the most important reason for me is that writing has always had a way of clarifying my thinking. Writing slows down my thoughts and forces them to account for themsleves, which they are frequently unable to do. So writing down my thoughts helps me to clarify them. At work, or during my spells at university, for example, I have often had my deepest insights about things while writing about them, not before.

So I recognise writing as a cognitive and emotional tool. But outside of work and formal academic learning, I have always lacked an excuse to use this tool. I kept a diary for a long time at school and in my undergraduate years, and resuscitated the habit a year ago while doing a spell at university in Hong Kong. There is, however, something unbearably lonely about a diary.

It is difficult, and perhaps impossible, to write without having an audience in mind. As Martin Amis wrote: "...someone watches over us when me write. Mother. Teacher. Shakespeare. God." For a time I imagined sharing my diary with important poeple in my life, and at times I have in fact done so. At other times I have imagined sharing it with my children, if I ever have any, so that perhaps they can have more insight into the human behind the Parent.

In the end the effort required for writing in my diary was too large to justify the flimsy returns of imagined future sharing with hypothetical others, and indeed the effort grew each year as my hands became increasingly unfamiliar with pens and paper.

It was only a matter of time before a frustrated journalist and lonely diarist like me would latch on to the idea of blogging, and this is the result. I enjoy being able to write whatever I feel like writing about, and I am perfectly happy to accept the possibility that absolutely nobody cares, because the mere possibility that someone will read it, and someone will care, even just a little bit, feels... nice.

So now it's you who watches over me when I write.

My gut has always told me that my gut drives my behaviour more than my self-important cerebral cortex would like to admit.

It’s a brain-gut argument that bubbles in me from time to time. Usually it happens when I have tied myself into a knot of reason about some or other dilemma, only to end up doing what my instinct had been trying to tell me (through the jackhammer rattle of reason spewing from my brain) to do all the time. For some reason, reason needs to rationalise the things it’s going to end up doing anyway.

My mind and my gut may as well be husband and wife.

Speaking of which, sexual relations are among the human behaviours whose genetic, evolutionary roots are the topic of a fascinating article in the Christmas edition of the Economist.

One of the most intriguing parts of the article concerns the phenomenon of self-sacrifice. Humans sacrifice their own lives not only to save members of their own family, but also to protect their friends, a behaviour which should have no evolutionary benefits. The saviour’s subconscious assumption must be that the saved will protect his off-spring in return. But how can the saviour be sure of it? He can’t, and this is the evolutionary reason why human societies value trust so much.

Without the ability to trust our friends, we would not be able to rely on them to look after our brood if were to die fighting off the grizzly bear. Or, to extend the Economist’s argument liberally, fighting off the invading barbarians, or the Romans, or the terrorists, or (for the benefit of even-handedness, or gratuitous controversy, take your pick) the American army. Without the ability to trust beyond our family, there would be no self-sacrifice, and perhaps then there would be no armies. Without armies, wars might begin with two competing alpha males, and end with one.

Luckily, it’s more complicated than that. Or at least I hope it is. Because my gut is telling me that trust is good and can’t possibly be a necessary condition for war. My brain, on the other hand, suspects that my gut is programmed to send me to the nearest conscription tent, and cannot, therefore, be trusted.

I can be pretty dim sometimes.

There I was, in China – note, CHINA - merrily surfing the internet. How odd, I thought, that I could not seem to access Wikipedia to do my usual research on music artists, or check the facts I might want to prod into the open on my blog. How odd, I thought, that I also could not seem to access my own personal blog to check the publishing format. Must be a problem with the hotel’s network, thought silly old I.

The penny only dropped this morning when I read the Globe and Mail’s Adam Curry). But it meets 99% of my requirements for definitive information in a fraction of the time it takes me on the Googlenet.

In fact, I would even go so far as to say that Wikipedia allows me to use the internet in a way that is much closer to my platonic ideal of what it should be. To understand what my ideal is, imagine Captain James T. Kirk (pick your favourite) boldly going off somewhere in a blur of stars, presenting a proud profile to the camera on the bridge of the USS Enterprise, and asking “Computer, what is ZZ-Top?”.

In my mind, the computer coming back with THE answer, as best as could be found, is a large part of what the internet should be. If Captain Kirk got 750,000 web pages to read instead of a nice clear answer, he’d have a lot less time for killing Klingons and a lot less viewers.

So my heart goes out to the Chinese, deprived as they now are of an indispensably helpful ship’s computer. Unfortunately, since the Chinese government also seems to have blocked everything.blogspot.com, they may never know of my sympathy.

Shenzhen, I am led to believe, was a fishing village 40 yeas ago, plodding along a mere cannon's shot from hustling Hong Kong. Today it heaves with 15 million capitalist souls, charging breathlessly in the exhaust fumes and neon shadows from digital electronics mall to digital electronics mall.

I have never seen so many gizmos in one place. You get the feeling a bright young thing with a spreadsheet and nothing better to do could work out the profitability of each square foot of concrete as a factor of how many escalators you have to scale to get there. Or something.

It's impressive. I'm here with some colleagues from Mumbai who shook their heads, not in the usual Indian gesture of general agreement, but in the more modern Indian way that communicates wordlessly the impossibility of competing with the industrial pumphouse that is China today.

We're here on a mission.

We want to find an Internet cafe to see firsthand how the Chinese youth use the internet. The youth, after all, are who use the internet here. Combine 40 million broadband connections and tens (perhaps hundreds) of thousands of internet cafes, with the one-child policy and the wealthy, coddled youngsters it produces, and you get a phenomenon of internet use not seen anywhere else in the world.

When we eventually found an internet cafe, after at least 20 hesitant English interrogations of non-plussed Chinese bystanders, our eyes were well and truly opened. Out of 150 workstations, about half were in use, but on all of these I saw only two web browsers and one instance of MSN Messenger. Instead of browsing, close to half the people there were actively using QQ, the ubiquitous instant messaging service, with multiple conversations open and their virtual characters fully decked out in all the clothes and handbags and other electronic paraphernalia they can buy for a couple of yuan a piece.

In between chats, and indeed orchestrated through chatting, they were playing a wide variety of online games, from card games and advanced casual games, to MMORPG worlds and chaotic, bloody shoot-em-ups. A couple of loners were watching streaming videos, but many watched while chatting away to their mates on the other side of the cafe, or the other side of China.

So this is what happens when broadband comes to Chinese youths. A fantasy world of games, videos, chatting, dressing up, and chasing girls. Not that surprising, I suppose (I mean, I would have done exactly the same thing at this age, in these circumstances), but startling in its stark difference with other internet markets I am familiar with - India, South Africa and the US.

In fact, you couldn't get two more different worlds than the Chinese and Indian internets. Indian users are older, poorer, more serious, and mainly use email, jobs sites and matrimonial matchups. Chinese internet users are young, wealthy and all they wanna do is play.

Beyond their population sizes and growth rates, India and China seem more and more different from one another the more you look at them. China's ground is paved in concrete and the sky is filled with cranes. India is rundown and chaotic. Yet somehow, somewhere, someone is going to find the nexus of social stress and technological enablement that unleashes a uniquely Indian internet phenomenon upon its citizens.

What will it be, what will it be....?

I'm not too sure what this story will be about, but I do know one thing: it will not be a list of all the stories I've read on the web today. Boy, my head spins after reading my daily blog dose these days. Everyone links to everyone else who is linking to everyone else, the net effect of which is a byzantine mess of browser windows beating around the various topical bushes, so to speak, of the day.

Not that linkblogs don't have their place. After all, choosing a blogger or two you whose taste you approve of is an indispensable tool for managing information flow these days. If you find a few with interests in alignment with yours, well, you can outsource your reading to them, just as Douglas Adams suggested you could outsource your TV watching to the video machine. Little did he know that PVRs would one day literally fulfill his vision, scanning hours and hours of content without even lounging around on the sofa drinking beer.

So linkblogs are nice. I like them. But this won't be one of them. I will do my level best only to contribute to the linkfest in the context of some particular thing I happen to be trying to say. Today my contribution to the world of knowledge is this: don't you think it's strange that Blogger's spell check doesn't include the word "blogger"?