Harbin: Two yokels from outback Songyuan hit the big smoke

JUNE 17, 2007: They descended on the city from an unknown provincial hick town. Photos

Fresh from their first appearance on the streets of their provincial capital, the pair were feeling positively urbane. But a wily outlaw cab driver at the train station picked them out in the crowd from 100m away. Chinese outlaw cabbies' livelihoods depend on picking out-of-towners among the swarming masses before they can reach the official taxi rank, and never had he seen such obvious specimens. "Their unintelligible outback dialect will be the only obstacle," he thought.

It proved the opposite. The yokels were weary after hours standing on the overloaded cattle train and, after a hasty exchange based on sign language they relented in the face of his big-city self-assuredness.

"Maybe this is what folks hayve in the big city insteada blue three-wheel trucks," said one yokel to the other inside the dilapidated 'taxi' as it struggled to the hotel like an overloaded pack donkey.

The pair had both lived in cities when they were young but had long forgotten their city ways after eons in the wilderness. At the hotel, the male hick quickly forgot his weariness, too, and flew into a mock rage at the asking price as though he was in the market square, beating the price down by almost half.

Finally left alone in their room, they wondered what devious city tricks the hotel manager could have pulled on them. They didn't wonder long. Mosquitoes floated in through the open window and circled menacingly in the setting sun. It was hot outside and the room was hotter - closing the window wasn't an option.

"Furkin' paysts," the man cussed. "What sawta big city do they thank this is? Might as well be sittin' awn the porch at home."

"But look theyre," the woman replied, pointing to a rectangular white blox on the wall. "Ain't that air-cawn?"

"Air-cawn! Well i'll be daymned! Let's close this here windaw. How do you turn this thang awn? It ain't got no buttons."

"Maybe one of them re-motes, baby?"

He picked up one remote but only the television responded. He picked up the other remote but there was no response. He looked for a switch but there was none.

"We're jus' gon' have to open that windaw," she said. The man walked over to the window, drew back the curtain and looked into the twilight.

The room was on the first floor and the window opened out onto the flat concrete roof of the hotel's dining room annexe. A shallow, mossy puddle lay right outside, just below the window ledge. "Maws-quitoes breedin' right outside this furkin' windaw!," he shouted. A fat drop of water plopped into the puddle. He stick his long yokel neck out the window, looked up and saw seven floors of running air conditioners, all dripping on the one spot. "Daymn sneaky city folk! Gayve us the awnly room without air-cawn and all the erther air-cawn's are givin' us maws-quitoes."

He resolved to harass the manager.


"That there air con-ditionin'...broke," he drawled at the manager downstairs, struggling to sound like an old big city hand.

The manager gabbled a response in a kind of cityspeak that sounded to the hick like a pirate accent. He could only understand something about "cheap room" and "oparr window".

The hick decided he might be taken more seriously if he imitated the manager's accent. "What about all the moss-quitarrghs?"

The manager laughed and dived under the counter and produced two broken segments of mosquito coil. He handed them to the hick. "Game ovarrgh," he thought to himself.

But the hick would not be brushed aside. The only acceptable solution would be a good old fan. He thought for a moment, guessing how a pirate might make such a demand.

"We want a farrgh," he ventured.

The manager was visibly amused. He stood for a moment, shaking his head, and finally caved in to the hick's demand. A fan would be sent up at no charge.



* * *

The hicks spent the following day gazing in slack-jawed wonder at the sights of the city. They gazed in slack-jawed wonder at the glistening department stores, at the endless mannequins in the markets, at the old people on rollerblades in 'Stalin Park', at the dwarf beggar on his dwarf tricycle, at the dark shirtless fellow pacing around the supermarket entrance exposing himself, unchecked. (They passed him several times throughout the day.)




They gazed in slack-jawed wonder at the fat Russian sausages sold on every corner and the fancy Russian streetlights and the Russian buildings with their sharp turrets. They gazed in slack-jawed wonder at the Russians among the crowds, oafish-looking shaven headed men and stylish, narrow-eyed blond women in high-heels. The locals, for their part, had never even heard of sleepy 'Songyuarrgh', let along understood where the haggard pair were really coming from, and so gazed back in slack-jawed wonder.



The female hick quickly adapted to city ways and splurged on shoes and clothes. The male hick spent hours in a giant book store buying maps.

As the day grew long, they resolved to increase their urbanity even further and follow a dinner of Japanese raw fish with a visit to the local nightspots. They decided to leave the choice to a taxi driver, simply asking him to take them to "a real good barrgh". And so it began.

On arrival, the hicks were ushered inside by a waiter who was apparently trying to rope people in from the street. As the waiter guided them towards the elevator, the male hick was struck by a vague feeling of alarm. "This don't feeyl right," he thought, "gittin' in an el-e-vay-tor to go to a bar."

The bar, on the fourth floor, was empty with seedy dim red lighting. "Wuhn drank and we're outta here," he wispered to her.

As they sat down at the table chosen for them by the waiter, another waiter bearing a gigantic tray of food approached. The yokels shook their heads. "We jurst eaten," the male said, his uneasiness allowing his outsider accent coming through. The waiter flashed them a contemptuous glance and retreated. He returned with a notepad.

"We jurst be wantin' two bottles o' Harrghbin beeyer," the male said, trying to restore his city-pirate facade.

The waiter immediately saw through it and sent back a broadside of unintelligible pirate phrases any ship under the Jolly Roger would have been be proud of.

Dumbfounded, the hick repeated his initial request for two beers, slower this time. The pirate fired upon him once again. The sequence lasted a couple of minutes, before, with the yokel ship taking on water fast, an apparent truce was reached. Moments later, two bottles of Harbin Beer arrived and the hick's nerves were temporarily loosened.

Then came a large platter of fruit. "Dya thank this is freey?" the woman yokel asked her partner. "Naw, don't touch it," he replied.

Then came the bill. Twenty guilders each for the beers. Altogether, 310 guilders. "Ohmagawd," said one yokel. "Sheert," said the other.

The male set about trying to explain that they never ordered the 188-guilder fruit platter. More pirates arrived. They took turns in waving the bill like a skull and crossbones at the sinking hicks.

After a 15-minute battle, the hicks were swimming for dear life. They stood up and the male slapped 40 guilders down on the table and tried to walk out. But the pirates had treasure in their sights and were in no mood to let it sail peacefully past. They moved into formation, blockading the only channel through which the hicks could escape. The hick told them, in broken pirate-speak, to "call the po-lice 'cos we ain't payin' yall". The pirate captain was called and, after long negotiations, the hicks bought their freedom for 50 guilders.

"I ain't never gittin' in a el-e-vay-tor to go to a bar again," said one yokel to the other. And after a spot of slack-jawed gawking - this time at middle-aged local business people busting out earnestly to Russian trance music - they returned to the provinces the following day.